The Enchanted Cottage
by Phantom's Fiery Phoenix
Summary: Summary: Poor and plain Nurse Daae is hired to tend injured war hero Erik D'Anton in recently liberated WWII France. A variation from traditional canon, this story is one of endurance, hope, and the ever-redeeming powers of love.ExC, Romance/Hurt/Comfort, AU: 1944, Paris, France. Limony 'M' warning just to be safe.
1. The Garden of Hope

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The Enchanted Cottage

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Summary: Poor, obscure, and plain nurse Christine Daae is hired to tend injured war-time hero Erik D'Anton in recently liberated WWII France. A variation from traditional canon, this story is one of endurance, hope, and the ever-redeeming powers of love.

ExC, Romance/Hurt/Comfort, AU: 1944, Paris, France. Limony 'M' warning just to be safe.

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Ch. 1— The Garden of Hope

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_Paris, France_

_November, 1944_

The little nurse was back again.

Erik listened intently from his position by the curtained window as she made her way carefully down the cobbled drive, her sensible heels click-clicking with every step.

He had been keeping up with her comings and goings for quite a while now. And from the information he had gathered, she had begun work at the sanatorium when her father was admitted as a means of paying for his care.

And she had chosen to stay on when he had died.

That had been three months ago.

And Erik listened intently for her steps every night, waiting for her to arrive and begin her shift.

"Mr. D'Anton, Dr. Khan is here to see you."

With an absent gesture, Erik let the nurse on duty know he was ready. The door opened with a muted click as Nadir came in.

"Erik, it's good to see you."

"Khan, I wish I could say the same."

He heard the older man sigh. "It's still early days yet, Erik. Lie back, I want to check your pupils' response."

Erik felt the older physician's gnarled hands press against his bandaged forehead, and then he was slowly unwrapping the gauze. He heard the click of a penlight being depressed and grew hopeful, his eyes searching fruitlessly, sightlessly for the slightest trace of light.

His jaw clenched, he stated, "Nothing has changed."

The pen light clicked once more as the physician's hands replaced the gauze. "It's only been two months since your surgery, Erik. Your eyes still need time to heal."

"And if this condition stays permanent?"

Once more sighing, the older man grasped his shoulder. "Then you shall adapt."

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She was coming.

Erik could hear her light footfalls as she stepped down the hall, delivering meals from room to room, giving a kind word here, a helping hand there. His was the last corridor, the very last room. And he had hoped she'd stay true to form and talk with him a moment while she tidied things up.

A tentative knock on the door, and it gave with a muted click. "Mr. D'Anton?" her sweet voice asked from the doorway. "Would you care for your dinner now?"

Erik turned from his seated position by the open window towards the sound of her voice. "Good evening, Ms. Daae. You can place it in that corner there." He gestured to the small table and listened intently as the young woman did as bid, her steps lithe and sure as she sat down the tray she held and began to tidy up his room.

Inhaling deeply as she moved about, Erik delighted in her scent: sunshine, springtime, lavender soap, and an alluring note all her own. She came nearer him, and he asked her, "And how are you doing today, Ms. Daae?"

There was a tone of self-reproach in her voice when she said, "_I _should be asking _you_ that, sir."

Erik smiled roguishly. "Ah, but when you're here in my room, I can quite forget the realities of my situation entirely." He continued in a very conspiratorial whisper, "And every time you're here with me, Ms. Daae, I am _always_ doing well. Very well, indeed. So you never need ask again."

He heard her draw a surprised breath, and he smiled to himself.

But it was too much fun to tease and bait her so! Erik would stake his life she was blushing! Oh, he could just imagine her tell-tale blush. He said off-hand, "One of these days, Ms. Daae, you are going to have to describe for me what you look like."

She snapped the sheet she was folding vigorously and the noise resounded like a shot in the small space. He smirked to himself, knowing he had so discomfited the shy little nurse.

Their interaction was the highlight of his day, although she never once quipped back. It seemed curious to him that she did not know _how_ to respond to his flirting banter, and this gave him all the more encouragement to try and provoke a response.

It was her voice that called to him, made him want to engage her in conversation—keep her talking, made him want to make her smile—laugh that husky, amber-tinged laugh of hers that stirred such wicked, teasing thoughts in him.

She was over by his bed now, almost finished with folding the linens into crisp, precise hospital-prescribed corners, and he heard a slight tremor in her lovely voice when she bravely stated, "They warned me about you, you know?"

Erik was intrigued. "Ah. Did they now? And do you always listen to what _they_ have to say?"

In retreat, she bustled over to the other side of his small room, and Erik heard her empty the rubbish bin. Would she answer him, he wondered? He heard her draw a quick intake of breath, and then she stated in a rush, "'Mean-tempered and brutish' were the words they used to describe you."

When he didn't respond, she tentatively walked back over to him, and reaching past his chair, closed the window and drew the blinds. Erik inhaled, glutting himself on her scent, her very nearness.

He said softly for her ears alone, "And do you, Ms. Daae, find me 'mean-tempered and brutish'?"

He heard her gulp.

She stated quietly, mystified, "No. You are not at all as they say."

"CHRISTINE!"

Erik heard her gasp, the air around him stirring as she quickly turned around. "Come, child. You are needed in Four C. Phillips must be bathed again and his bed linens changed. Dinner did not agree with the poor man, not at all. Lord bless him."

"Yes, Nurse Tomlin."

He heard her quick footsteps indicating her departure from the room, and Erik's jaw clenched.

"Well, and how are you doing this evening, Lieutenant?"

"Leave, you wretched cow, and take the damned tray with you!"

The head nurse cackled, her laughter shrill to his sensitive ears. And with a muted click, the door to his room was closed, and Erik was left alone with his thoughts once more.

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Christine's hands shook as she left Mr. D'Anton's room.

How did he do it? Every single time she went to tidy his room, she vowed that she would be professional, courteous, and keep a respectful, impersonal distance. But each time, the dratted man caused her to stutter and blush, his comments inducing her heart to pound.

_Not for the likes of her, he wasn't._ There were reminders enough in his room although he could not see them. His fiancée Carlotta Landress had plastered nearly every available surface with photographs of herself, and of the both of them as a couple. Christine had gazed at their photos often enough.

Mr. Erik D'Anton was a very handsome man.

At least, he had been before the German mortar shell had exploded near him and his contingent of men, killing many of them and peppering his face and body with shrapnel. He had been a Lieutenant in the French Army, and had been integral, so Christine had heard from the gossip of the other nurses, in the battle to liberate Paris: the very same battle in which he lost his sight and almost lost his life. A decorated war hero with a beautiful and very talented fiancé, the man was definitely not for the likes of her.

But a girl could dream, right?

And Mr. D'Anton's teasing quips and liquid voice featured nightly in her dreams.

But she did not delude herself. The only reason he said half the things he did to her was because he did not know what she looked like.

The man _was_ blind after all.

Throughout Christine's life, adjectives such as 'plain', 'gawky', and 'homely' had always been applied to her by well-meaning friends of her father. And Christine had always tried to take such comments in stride. After all, she had been quite the disappointment to him, for she looked nothing like her mother and everything like him.

The only trait of her mother's that Christine had inherited was her voice, and even in this, she was embarrassed, for she had once overheard her father say to one of his friends, "It's such a shame, Christophe, such a shame! That an angel's voice should be paired with such dowdy plumage."

She had stopped singing that very night and had yet to sing a note since.

Oh, not for her father's lack of trying.

Even on his deathbed, he had urged her to sing for him. But Christine found she couldn't. She didn't have the will or the strength or whatever it's called when one's very heart has been beaten and broken in two by the supposed love of one that is supposed to love unconditionally.

Still, she had cared for him to the best of her ability, devoting herself, her life, to making his last few years as comfortable as possible considering the diagnosis he had been given. When she found she was no longer able to give him the quality of care he needed, she had gone to the Jardin D'espoir Sanitarium to make his last few months as comfortable and pain-free as possible.

And she had been working as a nurse's aide ever since.

"Hello Mr. Phillips, Nurse Tomlin said you needed another bath."

In answer, the dotty old man gave her a toothless grin and wriggled around where he sat. Christine pursed her lips, trying not to cringe. The tang of human waste was more noticeably pungent, especially now. Holding her breath, Christine went behind the chair and began pushing him towards the bathing ward, and she tried to count her blessings, really she did.

After all, she had a prospect of steady employment and this was a good, if not _good paying_, job. And that was more than she could say for many in her station or situation.

_And too, bath time with Mr. Phillips could have been so much worse!_ she thought as she began to wash the poor, dottering older gentleman clean. He could have 'painted' with his feces as a few of her other patients had done.

Yes, she needed to count her blessings. Yes, indeed.

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_**A/N:**_ The title and general premise for this fic comes from the 1945 movie 'The Enchanted Cottage' w/the delectable Dorothy McGuire and Robert Young. The movie poster for the film is the cover-art for this fic.

More soon, dear readers. Keep watch.

PFP


	2. Angel of Mercy

Ch. 2— Angel of Mercy

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"Christine, we're short-handed today, dear. I'm going to need you to change Mr. D'Anton's bandages. Also be sure that man takes his medicine. He's been known to skip his doses if you don't watch him like a hawk. And Lord knows we don't want infection to set in. He has enough troubles as is. " Nurse Tomlin bustled away, already giving directions to an orderly, her tone shrill in harangue.

Christine placed the pile of carefully folded linens she had been holding back in her cart. Her hands started to shake. She couldn't touch him. Mr. D'Anton already made her nervous. If she got that close to him, then he would know, and he would just tease her more for it.

Desperately, she tried to think of anyone else available to do the task. Thayer? Faucher? Nurse Deniaud? She sought each of them out, dismayed when she found they were each and every one of them as busy as she. Nurse Tomlin had not exaggerated; they were woefully understaffed.

And this was all the more reason for her to quit shirking her responsibility and get it over with as quickly as possible.

Going to the cupboard, Christine gathered the necessary medicines and supplies, all the while telling herself she could do it: be professional, distant, and courteous… and aloof, dammit!

She needed to be aloof!

It wasn't as though she found the task ahead disagreeable.

On the contrary, her curiosity was piqued to see what he looked like now, scant months after his injury and the subsequent surgery. When he had arrived at the hospital, the damage to his face and body had been extensive. Dr. Khan had done the best he could with the limited medical supplies he'd had on hand.

But the day he had arrived was the day before the Nazis were defeated by the Allied forces and all of Paris freed; their medical supplies were severely limited. And he had come to them badly burned on over sixty percent of his body, parts of shrapnel still imbedded deep within his upper chest, thigh, and lower leg. The field surgeons had done what they could to staunch the bleeding and patch him up, but still, they had almost lost him in transit to the hospital.

Upon arrival, he had spent numerous hours in surgery, Dr. Khan trying to save his leg while Dr. Grieg worked on minimizing the damage inflicted from the burns and cuts, picking pieces of shrapnel from his skin.

All in all, Mr. D'Anton was very lucky to be alive.

And aside from the loss of his vision, Christine knew he would always walk with a limp—one of the many lasting reminders of his service to his country.

His face, however, had been wrapped in a heavy coating of bandages that needed to be washed, soaked in an antiseptic unguent, and changed every twelve hours to prevent him from developing infection. It was a very painful process. She knew, because she had heard the other nurses discussing it in detail, their voices filled with pity for the unfortunate man.

As she made her way to his room, Christine vowed she would not give him her pity. He deserved her devotion for his service to her country, and she would be devoted to making this as painless as possible for him.

So thinking, she resolved to do it, her fit of nerves, momentarily forgotten.

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Erik heard her coming to his room only a moment before she knocked. He was intrigued. Now, what could she be doing that would break the pattern the little nurse had so stringently set herself…? He heard the squeaking squeal of the cart and grit his jaw. Ah, a torture session then. And the hellcat Tomlin must have sent her sweetest angel to administer it.

No tentative knock this time. Not for Nurse Daae. This time, she gave a knock of determination. "Mr. D'Anton? May I come in, sir?"

"Et tu brute?" Erik said fatalistically as he heard the door open and the cart being pushed into his room.

He received the shock of his life when she rejoined him, "Animis opibusque parati."

He felt a smile tug his facial stitching despite himself. "And are you truly prepared, Torturess Daae?" he asked, knowing the phrase she uttered in Latin meant: '_I come_ _heart and mind prepared for anything'_. "Does that include causing agony and unnecessary suffering to this hapless, helpless patient under your tender and merciful care?"

She slowly wheeled the cart beside him and said soberly, "I would hardly call what must be done 'unnecessary', sir. And yes Mr. D'Anton, I came prepared."

Erik gave a sardonic grin. So the kitten _did_ have claws after all.

He flinched as he felt her cool hand touch underneath his chin, gently urging his head to rise. "I'm sorry," he heard her say, "I should have told you I was going to do that. I'll try to be more mindful, sir." The spot she touched remained one of the few places on his face that was un-bandaged due to burn, scrape, or wound, and it was _very_ sensitive to touch.

"I'm going to begin unwrapping the gauze, alright?"

He nodded tersely, and he felt her delicate fingers at his throat, slowly beginning to unwind the tightly bound dressing. He should be used to this by now. It had happened twice a day for the last two months, but he was not.

It was an excruciating ordeal.

And even though Erik had endured his fair share of agony throughout this nightmarish experience, nothing seemed to lessen the pain each time it occurred.

In desperation, he tried to distract himself. "So, you are versed in Latin, Nurse Daae? You must tell me how a young woman such as yourself," he winced as he felt her gently start to peal the gauze away from a burn. He persevered, keeping his tone more jovial than he felt, "_How_ does a young woman such as yourself come by such knowledge?"

He heard the sound of water pouring into a basin, and then her gentle hands were once more on his now thinly-bandaged face, applying a damp sponge filled with water to loosen the gauze where it had adhered to his skin by blood or some other nauseous, sticky substance.

He flinched again as she began to tug, separating the linen layer from the flesh. At this point, he typically cursed the nurse attending him a blue streak, disparaging her profession, personality, looks, and birth.

He grit his jaw, biting back his words. He would not, could not do that to _her_. To do so would be to break one such as she, and so, trembling, Erik endured.

For her sake and his, he did so in silence.

Blessedly, just when he thought she was going to forgo his question entirely, she answered, "My father, sir, was a music professor at a small but prestigious university in Stockholm. I spent my formative years attending classes—they were free for the family of faculty—and so, that is how I learned to speak Latin."

"Music… Ms. Daae, your father was a musician?" Erik asked, intrigued.

There was a sad note in her voice, when she answered softly, "He tried to be."

Erik made some noise of assent. She was coming to the last bit of it, the bit that always burned like hellfire any time one of them touched it, and he couldn't help the grunting wince of pain.

Again, she apologized, "Oh, sir! I'm sorry! I'm trying to be careful, but it's just—"

Reaching up, Erik grasped her hands, "Don't apologize," he grit, "Just… hurry."

He felt her hands tremble. "Y—yes, sir."

He gave a terse nod and immediately released her, drawing a centering breath and forcing himself to relax and focus on _her_, her thoughts, her words.

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"You said he 'tried to be'…what exactly does that mean, Ms. Daae?"

Christine gulped as she looked down at the ravaged remains of his face. God, but he was almost unrecognizable from the man he once was! Oh, how she wished she hadn't known what he looked like before. How she wished it!

It made the reality all the more terrifying.

In the months since his injury, the bruising and swelling had gone down considerably, and the torn and burned skin had begun to heal. But the scar tissue resulting from his burns were developing keloids: she knew this was the term because Dr. Grieg had used it to describe what would sometimes occur to the skin of a patient suffering from a cut or burn.

Thick, shiny, and purple-tinged, the 'mutant' scars were developing along both sides of his face, from his hairline down to his neck in an obscene patchwork that curved to encompass parts of his cheek and chin as well. The nerves in the muscles near his right upper lip had been severed, and so now he could no longer move that part of his face, and it sagged.

She was glad she kept his eyes covered for she didn't think she could bare it if he stared sightlessly up at her from such a face. God! She didn't think she could. And despite her vow, Christine looked down at the now unfortunate looking man in pity.

It was cruel; a cruel and vicious twist of fate to lay such a man as he this low.

"I am waiting, _Torturess Daae_." His tone, and his expression, although still tight with tension and pain, were teasing of her. He grinned a lopsided smile that tugged at the corner of one of his stitches, and Christine felt her heart skip a beat.

Blinking, she shook her head.

What was it he had asked her? _Oh, yes. Her father._

She picked up the mild soap and began to work lather into the water-laden sponge. "I did say he _tried_ to be a musician, but…" she bit her lip, and gently began to rub the sponge over his face. She drew a breath and confided, "You know the expression, 'those who can't do, teach?'"

He made a humming noise that Christine was beginning to associate with him agreeing with her to continue. She sighed, "Well, that was my father. He had a gifted ear for critique but not for creation."

"Ah." He cocked his head to the side, intrigued. "And does his daughter share his _ability_ for critique?"

Christine surprised herself with the vehemence of her reply when she answered, "His daughter does not share his love for music in the slightest."

Again, he reached up to clasp her hands. "_That_ is a true shame, my dear."

She gulped, feeling the need to justify her answer, justify herself, but he instantly released her hands, with a gentle reprimand, "Now, mademoiselle, the soap does sting. Please hurry as fast as you're able."

Christine swallowed back the emotion she felt and quickly did as bid; somehow getting the impression that he—this man that sat so bared and broken before her—_pitied_ _her_.

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	3. Bearding the Lion

Ch. 3— Bearding the Lion

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Christine stood outside the door to Mr. D'Anton's room, her eyes closed and her jaw grit tight.

She could hear yelling from within, all on the part of one irate opera diva.

"Ms. Landress, please try to understand—"

"I DO NOT UNDERSTAND! _THIS_ IS THE BEST YOU COULD DO FOR HIM?! THIS?!" Christine heard something break and peaked through the slightly opened door to see the diva sweep another framed photograph off the table nearest her to shatter on the floor.

"_Carlotta_." Mr. D'Anton grit through clenched teeth.

"THIS IS AN OUTRAGE, ERIK! A GROTESQUE NIGHTMARE!"

Today had been the day his bandages had come off for good, and Dr. Khan and Nurse Tomlin had invited his fiancé to be there for the 'great unraveling'.

Like many of the staff, Christine had been in awe of the diva when she'd arrived.

Dressed to the nines in gold satin trimmed in fur that molded to her curvaceous physique, black hair falling in voluptuous, glistening waves down her shoulders and back, her perfectly made up face stunningly beautiful to behold, the famous diva looked like she just stepped from a cover of _Harper's Bazaar_ or from the red carpet of the Parisian Cinema.

They all of them, nurses, aides, and orderlies crowded outside the door to listen to her reaction.

Once the yelling had started however, everyone but Christine had found somewhere else to be, another duty to be tended.

As Christine watched, Nurse Tomlin whispered something into Dr. Khan's ear, and the elderly gentleman nodded. "Yes, I do agree a recess is in order. We will all of us take some time. Come, Ms. Landress, let me show you the gardens of the Jardin D'espoir. It is the gardens, after all, from where this sanitarium draws its name. And I would be happy to use this time to answer any questions you may still have."

With a venomous look towards the ruined visage of her fiancé, the diva nodded her assent, and the two left the room with heads bowed together, the diva whispering furiously at the older, dark-skinned physician.

"Ah, Christine. Good. You are still there."

Christine looked up into the tension-lined face of Nurse Tomlin. "Grab a dustpan and broom, won't you, and tidy up the floor a bit for the Lieutenant." Nurse Tomlin's face turned sour. "It seems there was quite the _accident_."

The head nurse turned back to face the man currently seated by the window as he stared sightlessly out into the sunshine-bright day. "Is there anything I can do for you, Lieuten—"

"Leave, hellcat!" Mr. D'Anton ordered, cutting her off. "_That_ is all you can do for me."

The head nurse sighed and shook her head, shutting the door softly behind her.

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Tremulously, Christine knocked on his door, clutching the broom and dustpan to her like a sword and shield. God, but she was truly bearding the lion in his den. Drawing a breath for courage, she straightened her shoulders, and asked, "Mr. D'Anton, would you mind if I came in?"

There was no answer, and she opened the door just a crack to see if he was alright. The sight that met her eyes stopped her heart.

He was touching his ravaged, barely-healed face.

Christine pursed her lips together as she continued to stare. His hands were trembling, shaking as he blindly charted the devastated topography he found there, his sightless honey-hued eyes opened wide in shock.

And his expression! Oh, it broke her heart to see it: one of such utter disbelief on his poor, wretched face.

Her throat worked convulsively, giving a small, involuntary click, and his head shot up with a snap, his sightless eyes seeming to stare a hole straight through her before he quickly turned his face away. "Ms. Daae. To what do I owe the pleasure of this intrusion on my solitude?"

She gulped thickly and took an involuntary step back. "I—That is to say, Nurse Tomlin… errm, I—I was sent to clear the glass away."

"The hellcat sent you in here, did she?" He turned fully from her then so that his face was completely hidden from view. "Well, get on with it, girl, and be gone."

"Y—yes, sir."

Drawing a deep breath for courage, Christine clutched the broom and dustpan to her and entered the room.

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Erik tried to calm himself.

Carlotta's reaction had expressed it all, as his leading diva did have a tendency to do so well: gasping horror, absolute outrage, anger upon his behalf _and_ _at him_.

And then ultimately, disgust.

True disgust for the man he now was—the face he now wore with his useless eyes and crippled body.

He heard the glass shards tinkle as they were being swept away, and he thought how apt that the hellcat would send _her_ to him in this—his lowest hour. He drew another deep breath and focused intently on the smells of springtime, sunshine, and lavender… letting it clear his putrid thoughts.

Perhaps it wasn't as bad as it seemed? His diva's reactions did tend to leave something to be desired in terms of veracity. He closed his worthless eyes, his jaw grit tight as shards of glass continued to grate and tinkle across the floor.

He could ask her… ask the little nurse for her opinion on the matter. But if his face truly was as bad as Carlotta purported it to be….

Instinctively, he turned away from the sounds of her cleaning. Perhaps now he was hideously deformed?

God! What would that mean for his relationship with Carlotta? His standing in the Parisian community? His business for God's sakes?!

Surely, if it was as bad as all that, Khan would have let him know before now.

Surely…

He needed to talk with him. _Immediately_. Khan would know exactly what answers he needed and put a fine point on where Erik stood in relation to his recuperation.

He had been absent almost ten and a half months as it was: eight months enlisted and two and a half spent in confinement as he recovered. It was time to rejoin the human race, take up the mantle of his business again, and settle down to the realities of almost-married life.

The glass shards shattered once more as they hit the bottom of the rubbish bin.

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_**A/N:**_ Oh, but Erik's fiancé is quite the witch with a capital 'B', isn't she? But then, of course, we know this owing solely to her name alone. And poor Erik, having to face such a realization with no one else present to comfort him… hmm, no one else except for one lonely, little nurse sweeping up the broken pieces…

I would dearly love to know your thoughts on my little tale, dear readers. Even if it's only a one word reply, I'll take it! :D

More soon.

Keep watch,

_**PFP**_


	4. Fight and Flight

Ch. 4— Fight and Flight

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"I didn't want to tell you, Erik, until the swelling had receded enough for me to be sure."

Erik turned his face away from the physician. "And you're certain?"

"Erik—"

"Nothing more can be done to fix my… _deformity_?"

"Remember, you are lucky to be alive, Allah be praised."

Erik's fists clenched. "Allah—_God_? You dare speak of God to me, Nadir?"

"It's not as bad—"

"_**Quiet!**_" Erik roared.

"Erik," the older physician cautioned, "The swelling is not gone, your burns and cuts are mending, but they are not healed. And as for the keloids… it's a luckless condition that causes such thickened scars to form, but I am certain they will lessen in time. The keloids may never disappear, but they will get better just as _you_ will get better." The dark-skinned physician touched Erik's shoulder. "You must give yourself time."

Erik shrugged his hand away.

Nadir continued on undeterred, "The muscles on the right side of your face were severed at the nerve. That side will droop, pulling at your lower eyelid and lip. You'll notice it more when I remove the stitches. Your leg is mending nicely, but once you are able to walk, you must do so with a cane. Of course, you must anyway owing to your sightless condition."

"_Blind_." Erik muttered.

"What was that?" The physician asked.

"Say it, Nadir. _Blind_. I am blind, crippled, and deformed."

Erik heard him give an exasperated sigh. "I've said it once, and I'll say it again, the sightlessness you are experiencing could be temporary. Again, you must give yourself time to heal."

"When can I leave?"

"That's out of the question for a few weeks."

"_**When?!**_"

Erik, again, felt Nadir's hand fall upon his shoulder, and he grit his jaw, his posture stiffening.

Nadir continued patiently, "I want you to walk out of here instead of being rolled out in a chair. You must also give yourself time to adjust to your blindness. One of the nurses will assist you."

"Unnecessary." Erik insisted.

"Critical." Nadir countered. "It _is_ an adjustment, Erik, and one you must accept. Your blindness is your most detrimental injury. It affects every aspect of your life. After all, you've lived thirty-three years using your eyes to comprehend the world. By now, I'm sure you've noticed how your other four senses have heightened. You must relearn how to gauge distance, count your steps, and rely on your other senses to get your bearings."

Through gritted teeth, Erik said, "I will stay until my leg is healed, but no longer, and I refuse to take your 'crash course in blindness', Khan." Dislodging the older man's hand from his shoulder, Erik wheeled around in his chair, and showed the Persian doctor his back.

After a long moment, Erik heard him leave the room.

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Erik's thoughts returned to earlier that day before Nadir had come to give him such glad tidings. His fists clenched as he recalled Carlotta's words:

"This wasn't what I imagined when I agreed to marry you, Erik."

He laughed humorlessly, "And you think I did, little queen?"

"It's your own fault. Solely. I told you that you didn't have to fight. You and I could have gone on tour anywhere. We could've escaped the fighting and gone _anywhere_ else. But you decided to 'play hero' and look where it's landed you."

"Don't you mean 'look where it's landed us', madam?" Erik's tone was lethal.

"_Mademoiselle_ still," she corrected him sweetly. "Thank God! Thank God I saw reason and had the foresight to postpone our wedding until after the war."

"Is that the way you truly feel, _mademoiselle_?"

"Truly?" Carlotta asked, "God, yes! You sicken me! The very sight of you _sickens_ me, Erik! You are not the man I loved! Consider this an end to our engagement. I will have my solicitor contact you concerning the termination of my contract with the Opera effective immediately, along with a division of the assets from our apartment. Oh, and I'm also taking the dog."

Fighting hard at controlling the level of his voice, Erik replied, "As concerns the apartment and the damned dog, my girl, take them! What do I care? _**TAKE IT ALL, YOU GRASPING, SCHEMING DELILA, AND GET THE HELL OUT OF MY SIGHT!**__"_

She scoffed, "You always did have such a way with words, Erik dear."

He heard her begin to walk away.

"Leave the ring," he ordered softly.

Her dress swept across the floor, and he heard the rasping creak of cloth as her glove was removed. And then there was the bouncing clink as the band of gold and stone was tossed carelessly onto the small table before him.

Without another word, she turned and left.

.

.

.

_Get the hell out of my sight!_ His own words resounded in his head, mocking him.

_Get the hell out of my sight!_ How she had laid him low, his little queen, with her parting laughter—her spiteful words.

He once more lifted his hands to his face, feeling the thick, ropey scars, the places where the skin was stretched and thin because of the burns, the stitches that were knitting him back together in a patchwork formation every bit as grotesque as Shelley's Creature.

And then, of course there was the rest of him.

He had gathered from Nadir that his entire front had suffered much of the same as his face. He was scarred, cut, and burned everywhere.

Those bandages weren't nearly as painful or time-consuming to change as the ones for his face had been, and Erik ran his hands over them as he'd had occasion to do in his months' long confinement.

They were healing every day, becoming less painful. Erik again tested his bandaged foot, seeing if it could bear a little more of his weight.

Today it felt strong.

It felt…

It felt as though if he didn't get out of this place, he was going to scream the walls down.

He needed out of the hospital—NOW!

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.

.

"_**NURSE!" **_

Christine jumped.

"_**NURSE!"**_

She was compelled to stop what she was doing—which was shaving Mr. Phillips—and go running to Mr. D'Anton's room.

Apparently, she wasn't the only one.

Three others stood outside the door, looking just as puzzled as she. It was as if they had been summoned there by something _other_ than his screaming… But even as she thought it, he yelled again. _**"NNNUUUURRRRSSSSSE!"**_ He ended on a sibilant hiss that had the four of them clapping their hands over their ears and wincing in pain.

"What the hell is he on about?" Nurse Thayer asked.

Nurse Deniaud shook her head. "I am _not_ going in there. You couldn't pay me enough!"

"He's never bitten _your_ head off, Daae, for whatever reason," Orderly Faucher pointed out. "Now be a good little girl and get in there."

"_**NNNNNNNUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSE!"**_

All of them groaned, clutching at their ears; the sound had been deafening. Faucher reached for the knob and wrenched the door open right as Thayer shoved Christine into the room.

It closed with a clang of finality.

.

.

.

Christine scrabbled back against the smooth, wooded surface, groping for the doorknob.

"Who did they send, hmm? Cowards, all of you."

Christine saw him sniff at the air. "Ah, Nurse Daae." He smiled crookedly, with a hint of cynicism. "Considering your nervous nature, it's ironic they sent you to my room at all, and _especially_ so now." His sightless eyes flared. "But that is neither here nor there. And _here_ you are, and there by the door you shall remain until I say so.

"Now, you will take me to a telephone and dial a number for me. You will write what I tell you to write when I tell you to write it. Yes?"

Christine licked her lips, and swallowing convulsively, tried to answer him but the words kept getting lodged in her throat.

"_**ANSWER ME, DAMMIT! FOR THE LITTLE MOUSE YOU ARE, A SQUEAK WILL DO JUST FINE!" **_

To her mortification, it was a squeak that issued from her throat.

She saw him smile viciously, the expression cruel on his wretched face. "Good, we've proved you're not mute. Now, let's prove you're worth more than the meager salary you draw would suggest and see if you can follow simple instructions. … … …_**MOVE**_ _**MS. DAAE, NOW!**_"

Christine snapped to, quickly making her way over to the wheelchair-bound man. Trembling like a leaf, she began pushing him out of his room encountering strange stares from those they passed as they went. By now, the majority of the nursing staff had arrived and some of the patients as well to watch their slow procession.

"_Quicken the pace, Ms. Daae. I haven't all day_."

She felt compelled to do so, moving them faster down the long corridor towards the nurse's station.

"Thank you, Christine. I'll take him from here." Startled, Christine looked up into the determined eyes of Nurse Tomlin.

"_**You will not take me anywhere, Madam.**_ _Nurse Daae, continue_."

Again, Christine felt compelled to comply, but she was brushed aside, their progress halting as the head nurse gripped the handles to his chair.

Nurse Tomlin said softly, "Lieutenant, what do you think you're doing?"

"I am leaving, hellcat, and don't you dare try and stop me."

Blinking, Christine shook her head to clear it and looked up at the faces surrounding her. They were all of them staring at him. She, too, looked down at Mr. D'Anton, and for the first time that day, noticed the way he was dressed.

Instead of a robe and the casual button-down cotton shirt and pants she was used to seeing him in, he was in a white dress shirt and slacks, a loafer on one foot, a slipper still upon the other because the loafer obviously couldn't accommodate the thick bandage on his foot.

And as Christine looked closer, she noticed he had apparently, in his haste, missed a button half-way up his shirt, making his collar dip down unevenly and exposing the newly-acquired scars he had at his throat.

"Oh, really? Checking yourself out, are you?" Nurse Tomling said wryly, "I must strongly advise against that."

"_**Ms. Daae, take me to a phone**_."

Christine was pushing Nurse Tomlin roughly aside before she knew it, grabbing the handles of his chair, and then they were again rolling swiftly along down the hall.

"Christine Daae, you stop this instant!" she heard the head nurse yell.

"_You will not_." Mr. D'Anton ordered through clenched teeth.

"I will notify Dr. Khan of this, Lieutenant! He will not be pleased."

Mr. D'Anton did not respond.

Reaching the end of the corridor and wheeling him around, Christine put her back against the door to the Nurse's station and pushed, the heavy door reluctantly grinding open to admit them. Grunting, she pulled him through and then wheeled him until he was near the phone.

"_Dial,_" he ordered her, telling her the number. Immediately, she began doing his bidding, picking up the receiver and putting her finger to the rotary wheel, turning it. Nurse Tomlin burst into the room just as it started to ring.

"This is Fermin," a tinny voice answered the line.

"Lieutenant," Nurse Tomlin yelled, "I forbid you to leave! You have not healed enou—"

"_Hand me the phone, Nurse Daae._"

.

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.

_**A/N:**_ Oh, dear.

But what did you think of Erik's diagnosis? …and he learned this just after La Carlotta broke off their engagement?

Och, poor man! No wonder he's running…errm, rolling...for the hills.

I have been remiss in thanking one very special Beta— _**FP33**_— in my last posted chapters. She has been instrumental in making sure all my 'i's' are dotted and my 't's' are crossed as well as providing valuable insight into the final product you see before you.

A divine authoress in her own right, you can check out her works under her penname: _**FantomPhan33**_

More soon, dear readers.

Keep watch,

_**PFP**_


	5. Eyes Wide Open

Ch. 5— Eyes Wide Open

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It had been three and a half months since Mr. D'Anton had left.

A few minutes after he had made his phone call, a limousine had pulled up to the main entrance of the hospital, and limping, Mr. D'Anton 'walked' out of the hospital unassisted without even the aid of a cane.

Even now, it hurt for Christine to remember how he had stumbled, almost falling down the two small steps at the bottom of the entrance because he didn't know they were there. Because no one had told him.

Because he refused anyone's help.

The doorman and Mr. D'Anton's valet quickly rushed to his aid, but he shrugged them both aside, and with his scarred head held high, he ducked into the limousine and was driven away.

But he had remained in Christine's thoughts ever since.

She was too timid to inquire from Dr. Khan or Nurse Tomlin about his condition, but every day she thought about him… and every day, she missed him. Missed the way he used to talk at and tease her… that was up until the last couple of days of his hospitalization.

Christine still didn't know what to make of the strange encounter in his room that led to her pushing his wheelchair down the hall towards the phone. She barely remembered it at all, only that she was compelled to comply with his wishes even though they went against what both Nurse Tomlin and Dr. Khan had ordered.

And they also went against common sense.

She stood outside the door to Dr. Khan's office waiting to be let in.

Both he and Nurse Tomlin wanted to talk to her about something important, important enough to pull her off rotation when they were already so short-staffed— a buzzing noise sounded, and Christine jolted, coming to attention.

Dr. Khan's secretary nodded towards the door. "Christine, they're ready for you now."

Making sure her appearance was neat and her seams tidy, Christine opened the door.

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.

.

"Ms. Daae, please have a seat." Rising from his chair behind the desk, the older, dark-skinned physician smiled down at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "May I get you a coffee? Tea, my dear?"

"N-no. No thank you, sir."

Christine looked over at Nurse Tomlin; she wore a disapproving expression as she stared straight ahead, her hands balled tightly into fists at her lap.

The doctor nodded. "Well, since you are here, I'm just going to get straight to the point, shall I?"

Intrigued, Christine focused on Dr. Khan's words.

"A mutual acquaintance of ours is in dire need of your assistance, Ms. Daae." Christine looked at him curiously, and he nodded. "Yes, indeed. There is no doubt you remember a certain recalcitrant patient by the name of Erik D'Anton?"

She gulped, her eyes going wide and Dr. Khan nodded. "Yes, it seems you do remember," he said wryly. "Mr. D'Anton left the hospital under every advisable precaution against it and has been these three months slowly in decline."

Her heart plummeted. What did that mean? Was he regressing? Had he developed an infection?

Christine heard a snort come from Nurse Tomlin.

She looked over to find the nurse shaking her head. Dr. Khan shot Nurse Tomlin a quelling look, continuing, "As I was saying, his health has taken a turn for the worse, and I'm afraid without intervention, Erik will do himself grievous harm."

"Wh-what can I do…? I mean I'm not a doctor, or even a real nurse … I—"

"Ms. Daae, it seems you would be the perfect fit for what my godson needs."

Christine's eyes went wide. "Godson?"

"Yes." Dr. Khan nodded. "His mother was my wife's dear friend for thirty plus years before she died. And the day he was born, Erik was christened our godson. And I have been watching out for that boy ever since."

"But…"

"As I was saying," he interrupted her, holding up a forestalling hand, "you seem to be the perfect fit. And from what Nurse Tomlin says, the both of you got along tolerably well throughout his stay in the hospital," he raised his eyebrows, "which speaks volumes in and of itself, my dear. You are single, unattached, have no family that would object to your moving to Le Havre."

"Oh, this is preposterous, Khan!" Nurse Tomlin interjected. "You cannot propose to send the girl halfway across the country to Le Havre of all places."

"That's where he has chosen to live for the time being, and so, that is where the girl must go," the Persian doctor stated archly. "That is _if_ you decide to go, Ms. Daae, and I want you to think about it carefully—very carefully, my dear. Caring for my godson will be a full-time, twenty-four hour, seven days a week position. He is stubborn. He is proud. He has yet to accept the hand fate has dealt him. You will have to be strong, Ms. Daae, strong and capable."

Christine gulped, her hands starting to shake.

The doctor continued, "I've observed you for quite some time, spoken with Nurse Tomlin, some of the hospital staff and even a few of the patients under your care." He gave her a level look. "You work hard. You are kind, caring, and very competent in your treatment of those patients you are assigned. You should know you will always have a position here with us should you wish it, Ms. Daae, but I will be honest, your skills and kind heart are needed elsewhere. And here at this state-funded hospital, we cannot pay you what your time and caring attention are truly worth."

He smiled reluctantly, and picking up a pad and pencil, the doctor wrote something on it. Tearing off the perforated sheet and folding it, he slid the note over to her.

Curious, Christine unfolded the piece of paper and looked at what he had written; she gasped, her eyes going wide in shock.

The doctor nodded, studying her seriously. "_That_ is what I'm willing to pay, Ms. Daae. The man I'm asking you to treat is going to treat _you_ with anything but kindness. Being nursemaid to my godson is going to be a challenge the likes of which you've never encountered. It's going to take staying power, Ms. Daae, perseverance, and the ability to let the things he says go in one ear and out the other. Can you do this, Ms. Daae? Can you be that strong for him?"

Christine shook her head. "I don't—that is to say, I don't think—"

"The girl is not capable of that by her own admission, Dr. Khan. That last day, he was ordering her about, pushing her around, had her even pushing _me_ around. We would have more luck with a male, as I've said before, and I'll say it again."

"Erik would not react well to another ma—"

"I-I'll do it!" Christine clapped a hand over her mouth as if to take the words back.

This didn't escape Dr. Khan's attention, and he raised a solitary eyebrow. "Are you certain, mademoiselle? You still look unsure."

"I—" She lowered her hands.

"Christine," Nurse Tomlin broke in turning in her seat and giving her a sharp-eyed look. "I strongly urge you to reconsider! The man is an absolute beast, and he will flay you alive with that sharp tongue and wicked wit of his. You're no match for him, dear. No match at all, and I'm afraid that this is going to end for you in regret and tears."

Pursing her lips, Christine nodded, her mind suddenly made up.

She turned back to face the doctor and drawing a steadying breath, replied, "I'll do it, Dr. Khan. I'll go to him."

The relief that filled the older physician's face was palpable. Reaching across his desk, he took her hands in his. "Thank you! Thank you, my child! You can't realize what a blessing this truly is."

.

.

.

Everything seemed to happen quickly after that.

Darius, Dr. Khan's son, had agreed to make the journey with her up to Le Havre and see her situated in the small cottage that she was to call home for the foreseeable future.

Dr. Khan had given her a copy of Mr. D'Anton's case notes as well as strict instructions for his care. She was to be his full-time, live-in nurse and house-keeper: cooking his meals, cleaning the cottage, and administering his treatment and care.

She had been given money and a train ticket, and the instructions to meet Darius at the station where they would begin their journey to Le Havre.

As she stood on the crowded platform waiting for Darius to arrive, Christine thought back on all she was leaving behind… which admittedly wasn't much.

It seemed Dr. Khan had been correct in his assessment of her situation. As far as being unattached, she was practically expendable.

The thought made her frown.

The room she was letting at a boarding house near the hospital had been leased to another the moment she had notified the proprietress she was moving. So, even if she wanted to change her mind, she couldn't… not and stay at the same place where she'd been.

The hospital was loathed to see her go, Nurse Tomlin especially. However, Christine had begun training a replacement to take over the care of her patients the very day she'd agreed to go along with this madcap scheme.

Over the months she had been working there, she'd tried hard, really she had, to befriend her coworkers and have them see her as a fixture in the place: dependable, reliable, and friendly. But as hard as she tried, no one ever seemed to want to talk with her.

They all of them kept their distance, and Christine had endeavored not to let it discourage her. After all, she'd endured a lifetime of such treatment, such isolation.

And really, she should be used to it by now.

"Pardon me ladies and gentlemen, is there a Christine Daae here? I'm looking for Christine Daae."

"Here!" She flagged the gentleman yelling for her down. "…I'm here."

A train porter in his bellboy cap and kelly-green jacket came up to her. "Are you Christine Daae that's waiting for Darius Khan to arrive?"

She nodded, suddenly anxious.

"The office just received a telegram, ma'am." He pulled out a piece of thin stationary from his breast pocket and passed it to her. With a tip of his hat, the porter was gone, already moving to assist another passenger.

Opening the telegram, she read:

**Christine Daae**

**Paris Railway Station, Platform Seven**

**Mlle Daae **:stop:** I cannot accompany you **:stop: **Wife having child premature **:stop: **Please go on ahead as planned **:stop:** Instructions upon arrival in Le Havre **

**Darius Khan**

Christine gulped. Darius wasn't coming to Le Havre with her. And good grief, his wife was in labor!

Which meant she was going to have to face him alone!

The train whistle blew startling her, and she heard the conductor yell, "Last Call! All aboard! last Call!"

She looked down at the train ticket in her hand and then at the telegram. Well, this was really it. If she was going, then she was going alone, and she would have to convince _him_ he needed her help... by herself.

From what she had gathered from Dr. Khan, he was going to be firmly set against the idea.

Well, at least she was going into this eyes wide open…which was more than she could say for her charge.

Taking a deep breath, she boarded the train, never once looking back.

.

.

.

Digging through her valise, Christine brought out the case notes on Mr. D'Anton and began reading through them again as the train started to move. Both Dr. Kahn and Nurse Tomlin had left detailed instructions regarding Mr. D'Anton's treatment and care; also giving advice concerning what she could expect in her patient's conduct towards her.

Apparently, his courteous behavior with her had been highly unusual.

He was known for cursing the staff furiously, throwing things, making unreasonable demands. And in one instance, he almost broke an orderly's hand when the man had accidentally bumped his injured foot against the metal footboard of his bed while wheeling him to x-ray.

She knew of his patient history already. Other than a brief bout of chickenpox when he was a child, Mr. D'Anton had led a remarkably charmed life where his health was concerned up until he was so grievously wounded. As a child into adulthood, he'd had no broken bones, no major or minor illnesses, not even a cavity!

The man's immune system was a marvel, and Christine envied him that. It always seemed she was coming down with the sniffles or a sore throat at the drop of a hat. But then, of course, her chosen profession definitely impeded matters.

She read over the note concerning his blindness, and looking to the upper right-hand corner, she saw a scribbled notation she hadn't noticed before. She had to squint to read the words '_**Could be psychosomatic.'**_

Christine bit her lip, unfamiliar with the term 'psychosomatic'. She'd have to look it up or look it up or ask Dr. Khan what it meant at the first available opportunity.

She continued to read over his case history since he was admitted, but the more she did so, the more intimidated she became. Nurse Tomlin's notes were the worst, full of warnings telling her what not to do, how not to behave, how to approach the topics of food, medication, bathing even.

In exasperation, Christine put the case notes away and stared out the window into the gathering dusk as the countryside passed steadily by.

Unbidden, her thoughts circled back to her father.

Her father and she had gone to Perros for his confinement on the advice from the attending physician he saw in Stockholm. He had wanted Papa to take in the sea air as he said it would be better for Papa's health to be in a more moderate clime.

While in Perros, Christine had devoted herself towards seeing to her father's care and comfort. He had been a very recalcitrant patient, especially towards the end, and well Christine knew how to handle verbal bullying.

And too, up to a certain amount, physical abuse.

Towards the end, her father began to lash out at her, and sometimes not only with his words. He was in so much pain as his body slowly began cannibalizing itself, and there was nothing Christine could do except administer the medicine as prescribed and try and keep him as comfortable and distracted from the pain as much as possible.

Christine took a deep breath, calming her thoughts and the memories that wanted to surface from those dark days. That was all in the past.

She tried not to hold it against him—the things her Papa had said and done under the influence of such pain in his final days—but it was hard to reconcile the father she had known with the wasted, mean-spirited creature he had become. In a way, she almost had to look at him as two different people: one before the pain and one after in order to reconcile it in her mind.

Perhaps that's what she needed to do for Mr. D'Anton?

Of course, the man himself could surprise her and be delighted she'd come… Christine snorted. What a delusion! No, somehow she just knew her reception was going to be met with hostility… at the very least.

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.

_**A/N:**_ Well that's quite the twist in fate for our little nurse isn't it?

Thank you so much _**FP33**_ for your MAD beta skizzles: YOU'RE AMAZING, LADY!

And thank you so much, dear readers, for taking the time to read my little tale! Please leave a review in the kitty on your way out the door to show this authoress some support. :D

More soon, keep watch

_**PFP **_


	6. When God Closes a Door He Opens a Window

Ch. 6— When God Closes a Door, He Opens a Window

_**Language Disclaimer:**_ Ummkay, so I know I said the story is rated 'M' for Limoney content forthcoming, but it's also rated 'M' for language as well.

_**PFP**_

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_Where the hell is it? God in heaven, where is it? _

Erik groped around the table in front of him, searching—his fingers encountered the pen he was grasping for and sent it rolling to the floor. Erik roared, "_**GODDAMNED MOTHER FUCKING COCK SUCKING SON OF A BITCH!**_" He brought his fist down on the table splintering it to pieces and rose abruptly from the stool, sending it toppling as well.

"Like fucking Beethoven," he muttered. "Well, thank God _I_ still have my hearing." Arms stretched wide, he stared sightlessly up at the ceiling cursing the heavens.

Three months.

It had been a little over three months since he'd left that accursed hospital, and in that time, his life had spiraled into something from a Tourneur horror film.

Before the war, he'd had a life, a future, a woman, and now… now, he was a broken, blind wreck of a man without even his music to sustain him. Why, in all that time spent in hospital hadn't he realized the consequences of his injuries?

During the three years, eight months he'd spent fighting in The French Resistance, he'd faced the prospect of his death many times over protecting his country, his city, his Opera. But, in all honesty, it had never occurred to him that he could be permanently, lastingly injured.

In hindsight, it was utter foolishness.

Death, for him, was a certainty he had accepted should fate will it. Living maimed? The thought had never even crossed his mind. He closed his sightless eyes and hung his head, breathing hard as he remembered.

**Xxx::XXX::xxX**

The morter shell had come out of nowhere, a blinding white flash, exploding metal, ripping flesh, throwing them all back.

Groaning, Erik had returned to consciousness, screaming, "Jacques!" He yelled for his Sergeant. "_**JACQUES!**_"

He could see nothing, only smell the smells of smoke and the stench of burning, singeing flesh. "_**JACQUES!**_"

"Lieutenant!" a voice to his left groaned.

"Sansone," Erik turned to the man, groping for him. "Where's Jacques! I can't see. Are we buried beneath debris?" Erik blinked into the darkness before him, trying to make his way over to the corporal in the almost complete darkness.

It was gray. Monochrome. Why was everything gray?

"Ah, dear God! Ah, Christ!" he heard the man beside him groan.

Erik grit, "_**Tell me what you see, Sansone! That's an order**_."

"Ah, it's my leg! My goddamned leg, Lieutenant. Ah, Christ! MEDIC!"

"_**MEDIC!**_" Erik had yelled, piercing through the hail of gunfire exploding around them.

**Xxx::XXX::xxX**

"_**MEDIC!**_"

Coming back to himself with a start to the rafters' ringing, Erik realized he'd yelled aloud in the small cottage.

Drawing a deep, tremulous breath, Erik's every nerve was wire-taut with the memory of that moment. As time passed, instead of the memories fading, more and more _episodes_ like this were occurring.

He had come to Nadir's cottage in Le Havre to find solitude, to 'run from the business of living' as Fermin had put it when Erik informed the man of his decision to postpone the opening of the Opera until after reconstruction had been completed and a replacement Diva found.

Fermin still did not know of his blindness or his scars. The only other privy to such information besides Nadir, the hospital staff, and his ex-fiancé, was his valet, and Erik had sworn the man to secrecy.

Since the cottage was not wired for a telephone, he was communicating with Fermin by post that he would send when his valet Andre arrived each week with Erik's care package: mostly consisting of various bottles of alcohol and the type of cigarette he favored.

He knew it was a horrid habit, and was god-awful for the voice, but he had picked it up during the war and found nicotine had a steadying effect on his nerves when nothing else, not even drink, would do.

In the early days of his injury, he had been on morphine; in an out in a haze of unconsciousness—flitting between nightmarish pain and the nightmares the drug induced. He had gotten off the morphine as soon as possible, but the craving for nicotine had stayed.

And since he'd moved to the little cottage, that was all he seemed to do—smoke, drink, and pluck chords from the little sideboard piano in the parlor—chords he transcribed onto pieces of paper and then misplaced.

And these were the times he sorely regretted refusing Nadir's offer of help—of a maid—someone to clean up after him.

But by God, he didn't need one!

He winced as he tripped over the leg of a spindly little side table he had smashed earlier in the week. By God, the cottage had more spindly little tables than he could shake a stick at!

But Erik didn't have a stick.

And he wasn't going to use one either—not as a bloody cane. The thought made him snort and reach for the bottle he had kept on the piano. He didn't _need_ a cane! And definitely not to navigate through this tiny cottage he knew like the back of his hand. He was doing just fine without it!

Stepping back, he stubbed his bared foot on one of the piano's clawed edge and heard a bottle—the very bottle he was reaching for— topple over, ricocheting off his bad foot, and shattering onto the wooden floor before him.

"_**FUUUUUUUUUCK!**_"

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.

.

The city of Le Havre had seen much fighting during the four years France had been occupied.

From Christine's brief reading, she knew the city had served as the seat of the Belgian government while the fighting was still going on in their own country, and the Belgian government had only just, as of last month, relocated back to Brussels.

Although the railways remained passable, many of the buildings, including the post and stationmaster's quarters had been bombarded with gunfire. Others had been burned, bombed, or razed to the ground by tanks.

In fact, as she looked around, most of the city's buildings had been destroyed in some way. Her eyes searched for one that was wholly intact, but it was a fruitless endeavor.

The city was decimated.

This was probably the closest she had ever been to the realities of war on such a grand scale.

Her father had steered clear of it, siding with Sweden's position of neutrality in the face of such turmoil and unrest in the rest of the world. But there were friends of her father's—other professors— who had learned of the plight of the Jews and offered up their homes and all they had for the displaced immigrants and war camp refugees that had escaped.

Her father and she had boarded a ship to Perros-Geirec, and though the small town was occupied by German Soldiers at the time, as Swedes, they were treated with civility and respect. Her father was looked on as a great man of learning since he was a professor, and he would entertain the German soldiers of an evening with tales of his days spent travelling abroad and the people he had met, the things he had seen.

And yet, even in Paris, the fighting had not been as bad as this.

When her father's health had worsened, Christine had moved them to Paris and began working at the hospital in order to pay for his treatment a scant two months before her father had died and two weeks later, Paris liberated. Because of the war, there had been a scarcity of nurses, and Christine was immediately given a job and set to work.

She now had a comprehensive knowledge of injuries caused from war: gun shots, burns, broken, severed, or amputated limbs. But she'd never been this close to the wreckage, destruction, or absolute chaos of it all.

The city of Le Havre was so quiet as if it were in shock, and unbidden, the words to a Dickenson poem flitted through Christine's mind: '_After great pain a formal feeling comes…' _

Le Havre's denizens scampered to and fro' quickly, never staying in one place too long, and many stayed out of sight altogether, hiding behind drawn curtains and boarded up windows.

_And this was the place Mr. D'Anton had chosen to confine himself?_!

She found the stationmaster's temporary office, and true to Darius's telegrammed word, there were detailed instructions for navigating her way to the cottage and a letter addressed to Mr. D'Anton that she was to read to him upon her arrival. Dr. Khan had ended his instructions by writing he was now the proud grandfather of one healthy, if impatient, baby boy, and again thanked her profusely for her bravery in travelling to such a place alone, her willingness to help care for someone else's wellbeing, and a promise that should she ever want for anything, anything at all, she need only ask.

Christine kept his letter, folding it carefully, having a feeling she would need to read his words of encouragement often if she was going to see this through.

The stationmaster hired a cab for her, and passing the cabbie the instructions she was given, Christine watched as her small amount of luggage was loaded into a vehicle that had once been part of the German military. If she squinted, she could still see the outline of a swastika under the blue, white, and red vertical stripes of the French flag.

And then they were off, journeying down the twisty, winding war-torn city streets, drawing ever-closer to the countryside and the sea. The smells of salt and sea began to permeate the air, supplanting the smells of smoke, rubble, and soot. And too, if Christine listened, she could just make out the susurrations of the sea in the distance.

Much too soon for her liking, the cab pulled down a little lane that took them almost straight to a house perched perilously close to the cliff face, the sea crashing stories below it. Although dramatic, and very picturesque, the safety of the house, and the sightless occupant within, were precarious at best.

Unloading her bags by the stoop, the cabby had just driven away when she heard something shatter and then an explosively yelled obscenity that had her blushing pink even as she moved to action.

Christine bound up the stairs two at a time, reaching for the knob, frustrated when it wouldn't turn. Instead, she beat on the door. "Mr. D'Anton? Mr. D'Anton, sir? Are you alright? Please! Open the door, sir."

As she was speaking, there was more obscene swearing that seemed to stop mid-tirade, and then an incredulous voice rang out, "Nurse Daae?!"

Again, she tried the knob. "Yes, sir! Please, can you come open the door? I'm worried you've hurt yourself."

The only reply was a choked guffaw. She went over to the window at the side of the little garden, and peaking through a slit in the curtains, gasped, her mouth opening in shock.

The man looked wild!

Inky black hair fell in stringy streaks down to his shoulders and nape. He had on a wrinkled shirt with several days worth of sweat—and God knows what else—stains built up, black pants barely covered him for there was neither belt nor suspenders to hold them up, and he had obviously lost a great deal of weight since his leaving the hospital. And then she saw his predicament: his feet were currently bare, and he was surrounded by a sea of broken glass.

"Don't move!" she ordered him.

His head snapped to the window where she stood, his gaze unfocused, but his expression morphing from pain to anger in an instant.

Reaching, she tried the window casement, finding it, too, was locked.

"Is every window and door to the cottage locked, sir?" she asked.

"Yes, Ms. Daae, they are," he answered dryly, "Paris might be liberated, but parts of France are still under siege. Bands of roving, marauding German soldiers have been spotted for quite some time now going up and down the coast of Le Havre, looking for a way out of the country and any vulnerable possessions to loot. So pardon me," he gave her a mocking bow, "if in my condition, I've chosen precaution over expediency."

She bit her lip and pushing her forehead against the window, tried to see further into the room. "I'm sorry. It's just… Alright, if I can't get in, and you can't move because of the glass— I can see your foot's already cut on top as it is— you must let me in somehow."

She saw him raise a skeptical brow. "Must I really?"

She aimed for her most beguiling, soothing voice, "No. You don't have to, Mr. D'Anton, but it would be in your best interest if you did so. Your foot is bleeding, and you are surrounded by broken glass." She squinted, if she looked just right, she could see a spot to his right where there was no glass. "If you took a small step to your right… about six inches and then stepped forward another of about eighteen, you should avoid the majority of the glass. At least, I think you should. I can't really see well because of the curtains.

She watched him cross his arms. "I will not move even one inch from this spot, Ms. Daae."

"You'll have to move eventually, sir. The human body needs water and nourishment to thrive." She sighed. "You're just going to have to trust me."

Again, he gave another of those choked laughs, and Christine considered her options.

She could walk back to town and see if a locksmith could be found. She could break a window pane, but that seemed a last resort as it would compromise the security of the cottage and a glazier would be hard to come by to fix it in such a war-ravaged place as this… no, the best option still remained what she had told him. He was going to have to do this himself. "You could take off your over shirt, sir, and wrapping your cut foot with it, sweep some of the glass away… but I don't think—"

"If I cut my foot again because of you, Ms. Daae…" she heard him say, and then he was following her instructions to the inch, moving exactly as she'd told him.

Watching carefully with her one eye peeled to the curtains' crack, she paid attention to his expression, looking for a tell-tale wince to tell her that he had encountered a shard of glass. So far, so good.

"Well, now what?" he asked her tersely.

"Step one foot to your left, sir, and three steps ahead, you'll be at the window. Errm, mind the broken furniture… it's well… it's in pieces."

Again following her instructions, she saw him grimace as he stepped on one of the splintered wooden bits, and she winced in sympathy. Why the man was barefoot, she had no idea?

He flung open the curtains, groping for the latch, unlocked it, and then with a shove, pulled the window open. It gave with a reluctant shriek.

Immediately, the smell of him assaulted her: alcohol, cigarette smoke, and unkempt male.

She pursed her lips.

"Please do come in, Ms. Daae." He again bowed to the waist before the window.

Biting her lip, Christine looked down at the starched pencil skirt and pressed jacket she was wearing. Although fine for winter travel, neither were too conducive in allowing her to climb unaided across a window ledge. She tried raising her leg up to straddle the casement, but with the restricting calf-length skirt, it just wouldn't do.

In exasperation, she looked around, and making certain no one—besides her sightless charge— was there to witness, she hiked up her skirt to mid-thigh and straddling the window, climbed through. She stumbled only slightly on the broken bits of furniture at her feet.

Still, upon hearing this, Mr. D'Anton's arms shot out to catch her, and Christine blushed as she felt his fingers grab at her bared thighs and garters, for her stockings only went up mid-thigh.

Her heart beating fast, she quickly disentangled herself and backed away from him, pulling and smoothing her skirt modestly around her legs once more.

He raised a solitary eyebrow, and smiled crookedly, the drooping side of his face unmoving. "And here I thought all women had begun painting lines on the backs of their knees to denote the wearing of stockings due to the shortage of nylon thread." He smiled again, wolfishly, and that was when Christine realized he was well on his way to being nearly pickled with drink.

Although she had been fine when he needed her help—when he'd been in actual danger—her nerves suddenly returned full force as she was standing before him, looking up at him.

His honey-gold eyes looked sightlessly down and to the left of her as he continued to smile, and as Christine watched, he inhaled deeply, whatever he smelled causing him to smile more—this time a dopey, lopsided grin.

"Mr. D'Anton, have you been drinking?"

He nodded his head in a precise manner as only someone drunk would do, "Yes, nurse, I have, for about nigh on three months now. Oh, but where are my manners? Welcome to 'The Enchanted Cottage'; Nadir's little retreat by the sea." Again sniffing the air, he stepped forward, and Christine took a step back, putting her back against the wall. "And what, Nurse Daae, brings you here?"

He took another step towards her, and wincing as he stepped on another wooden splinter, he reached out until he found the wall with his fingertips, and then braced himself on it, his arm inches from her head.

Sniffing the air once more, he lowered his face until it was almost touching her own as he whispered, "I take it you are not here as Nadir's guest to take in the stunning seascape and enjoy the invigorating salt air? It _is_ November after all, and tourist season is long past."

She gulped and mumbled, "N-no, sir. Not quite."

"Speak up, Ms. Daae, a dog couldn't hear you."

"I—" Christine took a steadying breath and then blurted, "Dr. Khan gave me a l-letter to read to you upon my arrival, s-sir."

"Ah. Of course he did." He gave her a bitter smile, lowering his head until his mouth was inches from her own, and she could smell the sour tang of whisky on his breath.

Looking up at him, she gave an involuntary grimace at the damage his injuries had wrought. Some of the scars looked to be infected, others still had stitches that needed to be taken out, and still more looked like he had been scratching at them: mostly the scabbed over burns.

It was not a pretty sight.

"And the letter, Ms. Daae," he whispered, his rancid, warm breath teasing her lips. "What does it say?"

She realized she was trapped, pinned in by his arms to either side of her head and the wall. "I—"

"Answer me quick, dammit!" Spittle flew from his mouth, "I'll tolerate none of your stammering!" She turned her face away biting her lip hard to stop herself from crying.

Drawing deep from some untapped reserve of courage she never knew she possessed, Christine lifted her head high and turning back, faced him. "Mr. D'Anton, you need to take a step away from the wall and release me this instant."

He smiled that lopsided, vicious grin of his again. "Oh, is that right, Nurse Daae? As you can see, I have no hold over you. None at all." He waggled his fingers beside her to show that he wasn't touching her, just leaning his elbows up against the wall, trapping her in.

She ducked down, trying to dodge away, underneath his arms, but his hand flew until he was once more blocking her path, though he had never touched her. "Nuh, uh, uh… we'll have none of that. You _are_ trespassing, mademoiselle. And do you know what the punishment is for trespassing in these parts with a war still raging on across most of Europe?"

"You're drunk, sir," she said, trying to make him to see reason.

"_Death_, mademoiselle" he continued on unfazed. "The crime of trespassing is punishable by death."

Again, he lowered his face until it was scant inches away from her own, and Christine held her breath, not knowing what he was going to say or do next.

"Now the letter, Ms. Daae. _**READ IT!**_"

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_**A/N:**_ Good Grief, Erik! You should be ashamed o' yo'self!

And what could the letter say, dear readers?

More soon! Keep Watch.


	7. Your Humble Servant

Ch. 7— Your Humble Servant

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Only a hairsbreadth stood between his lips and hers, and Erik could feel each ragged breath as she exhaled.

"Sir, p-please. I have the letter in my pocket. If you'll go back a step, I can get to it."

Her frightened tone brought him to his senses as he realized he all but had the girl pinned to the wall where they stood.

He did as she requested, backing up a step, and he heard her draw a tremulous breath as he gave an inward wince. Was this what he had become? The animal he had become—and to _her_ especially? "My apologies, Ms. Daae. I don't quite know what came over me."

Her silence spoke volumes.

At length, he heard the rustle of cloth and then the rasp of paper as the letter was unfolded. She cleared her throat and read:

_**Erik,**_

_**Upon receiving this letter, you have noticed the new fixture I have chosen to establish in 'The Enchanted Cottage'. Ms. Daae is now under my direct employ, and as such, I urge you to treat my new house-keeper with the utmost civility and respect as she goes about her duties in seeing after my investment and tending to the comforts of all its visitors. As a guest of the E.C., I welcome you to take full advantage of all the new amenities and services her presence now provides. **_

_**If you have any questions or concerns, please feel free to inform Ms. Daae, and she will see them relayed to me. **_

_**Your godfather,**_

_**Nadir Khan**_

How dare the old meddling fool!

Sending Nurse Daae all the way up to Le Havre—Nadir had known why Erik had chosen such a place. HE KNEW! And yet he had sent her—ALONE! Rage towards Nadir supplanted every other thought.

By sending her up here, he had endangered her life.

Erik strove to keep his tone even, his mind trying to think coherently past the alcohol still fogging his brain. "And you… Ms. Daae, you agreed to this _proposal_ of Khan's? You agreed to be his housekeeper and _only_ his housekeeper?"

His tone was still more lethal-sounding than he would have liked, but it was effective for she answered readily. "Well…yes, sir. I did agree to it."

He cocked his head to the side, smiling bitterly. "Ah. So you both are raging lunatics then?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't understand," she said mystified.

"Hmm, no you don't. More naïve fool you, Ms. Daae. My godfather sent you here to care for me—"

"That's not true. It clearly states in the letter—"

He held up a forestalling hand. "And I have come to the E.C. to die."

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"W-what?" Christine couldn't believe her ears. "What did you just say?"

"It's simple, mademoiselle. I was not jesting when I told you the coast of Le Havre is a dangerous place. The odds of my surviving the winter here with such enemies and surrounding desolation are minimal. Compound that with my injuries, and well, I think even your naïve and foolish self can get the picture."

"No… I don't see it. I don't see it at all." Christine shook her head emphatically, her anger over his resignation to his own death completely overriding the nervousness she felt. "You're telling me you came up here to die?"

He took a menacing step towards her, again bringing her back flush against the wall as he stated lowly, "I'm telling you I came up here to make it easier for death to find me."

"Ah." Christine said as she suddenly broke away from the wall, quite having her fill of being hemmed in by him. _So he'd come up here to die, had he? Well, we would just see about that!_

And she couldn't believe the nerve of Dr. Khan!

His cottage housekeeper—she was to be his housekeeper only… at least, that's what the letter had implied to Mr. D'Anton. She understood the need for such a guise, but she was still fuming at the elderly physician. This put her in such a tight spot concerning his treatment and care! She would have to stay on her toes around him always and never let him know that she was his 'nurse'.

She winced. It was a horrible deception.

She looked around at the desolation of the small parlor, taking time to catalogue what his destruction had wrought: everything hung drunkenly from paintings on the wall, to books on the shelf. Pieces of broken furniture were everywhere, kicked and shuffled through. There was not a surface that didn't have a bottle on top of it; some half-filled, others empty and precariously close to rolling off and shattering on the floor. She again looked down at the state of his bare feet and winced.

"Ah, what, mademoiselle?"

"Ah, nothing, Mr. D'Anton," she answered absently, sorting what needed to be done first: a rubbish pile definitely, sweeping up the broken bits of glass and spilled liquor, there were pens and loose sheets of paper all over the place. She'd have to go through and organize them.

Carefully, she picked her way to the kitchen, bracing herself for what she would find. Still, she was taken aback by the mess—even though, by the state of the parlor, she knew she shouldn't be. Dirty and broken dishes were scattered everywhere. The smell was god-awful, but thankfully, it was too cold and too late in the season for flies or mold to thrive.

The cottage itself was an icebox, the small woodstove near the oven cold, and the wood box was bare of even kindling. She heard mumbled cursing behind her and realized Mr. D'Anton had ,through shuffling over broken pieces of furniture, followed her into the kitchen. "You will explain to me the nature of your last comment, Ms. Daae, and you will do so now."

"It's nothing, Mr. D'Anton…It's just…" she straightened her shoulders and turned back to face him, determination filling her voice as she said, "I never pictured you for a coward."

He drew a shocked breath, her words having apparently hit their mark quite effectively. She watched his jaw harden, and she continued, undeterred, "It takes courage. Courage to live with the face and disabilities you've been handed, Mr. D'Anton. It takes courage, compassion, and a thick skin to be able to live as you are now. To come up here to 'make it easier for death to find you' is nothing but shear cowardice on your part."

While she spoke, he walked towards the sound of her voice, until he stood right before her. His sightless golden eyes stared blankly down towards the floor, but she couldn't mistake the anger in them or the hurt her words had caused.

He ground out lowly through clenched teeth, "Get out."

Quivering, but standing firm in her resolve, Christine stepped forward and slowly reaching, gently took his clenched fists in both her hands. He gasped, pulling away, but she wouldn't let him and firmly held his hands in hers. Insistently, she led him over to the dining room table, and setting one of the chairs to rights, urged him to sit down.

She spoke very calmly as if to a wounded animal, "I cannot go anywhere tonight. Dusk is already upon us, and the last train bound for Paris left hours ago. Another is not scheduled to arrive for a few more days yet. Your feet are bleeding and bruised. Will you please allow me to tend them, sir? If you still want me to leave in a few days' time, I shall, but until then, I would like to do the job I'm being paid to do."

"As my nursemaid," he grit.

"Cottage housekeeper," she countered, her chin going up. "And as such, I'm responsible for any and all under this roof to see to their comfort and care. Now, please stay here sir, I'll be only a moment."

Unlocking the front door, she carried her small amount of luggage and the supplies Dr. Khan had urged her to take into the parlor, making sure to close and lock the window and door once more. Searching for a clean sponge, wash basin and stool, Christine gathered the other items she needed from her medical kit including: liniment, tweezers, and bandages.

And spying one of his shoes kicked haphazard in the corner, she looked for its mate and found it shoved under the couch. To her, it was obvious what had happened, at least with the shoes. He had misplaced them and couldn't find them again, and so, had been traipsing barefoot through the glass and splinter-encrusted mine-field the cottage had become.

Returning to the table, she cleared a spot free of broken, filthy crockery and unloaded her supplies. Christine then took the basin and went to the sink, praying it had a modicum of clean water that she could heat on the gas-powered stove.

She was pleasantly surprised when the water began heating up under the faucet, and she smiled. Warm water! The cottage had a hot water heater and electricity. She looked around, noticing for the first time that the cottage was, indeed, outfitted with electricity which meant it might have a radiator for heating the place!

She sat the basin of warm water at his feet, and finding a low stool, she brought it before him and sat, once more having to maneuver her skirt so that she could do so comfortably, hiking it to her thighs to maintain a modicum of maneuverability. Christine vowed then and there that she would never wear this skirt again!

"How much is he paying you? I'll double it if you promise to leave tomorrow morning and never come back here again."

Christine quoted the sum that Dr. Khan had given her and watched as his eyebrows rose. "Apparently, the _cottage_ means very much to him," she said vaguely as reaching down, she gently took his cut, bloodied and bruised foot in hand, settling it gently in the warm water. She heard his small intake of surprise as she did so and saw his posture stiffen.

With careful attention, she began to wash his feet.

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How long had it been since someone had focused their sole attention for _his_ comfort and care?

Had anyone ever done so?

Before the war, Erik would have liked to say 'yes'. He and Carlotta had cared for one another, looked after one another, but he knew this for the delusion it was. Their relationship had never involved much caring… on either end if he was honest. Erik had taken pleasure from her, certainly, and made sure he gave her pleasure in return.

But… Nurse Daae's touch was different, even different from the hands of the other nurses, doctors, and orderlies he'd encountered.

He could actually feel the care that was going into each and every stroke of her hands upon his battered flesh. He could feel the reverence—and it wasn't for _him_ as a man, no, but as a fellow man—her fellow man—and she was seeing to his comfort, his health, serving him just as Christ had done to each of his disciples before that ill-fated supper.

Her touch was everything reassuring and expert, and going against his better judgment, Erik felt himself begin to relax under her gentle ministrations.

All too soon, she was patting his foot dry, and he realized she was using a bit of cloth other than a towel to do so.

"Ms. Daae, what are you using to dry my foot?"

She cleared her throat, and he could detect a hint of embarrassment in her tone when she answered, "My jacket. I couldn't find a towel, not in all the mess, and I don't want your perfectly clean and soon-to-be-medicated feet to touch this filthy floor." She carefully finished bundling his foot in her jacket and propped it at the heel.

She had just ruined her jacket… for him.

His throat working, Erik gulped, swallowing down the emotion he felt.

He felt the air displace as she got up, and he heard the water being emptied and changed. And then she was back, giving his other foot the same treatment, and Erik groaned softly as he felt her work her thumbs into his arch and sole. This foot—his good one—wasn't nearly as bruised or battered as the other, and she treated it less delicately but with just as much attention and care. In fact, she was giving it even more consideration for she was actually giving him a massage.

Unbidden, thoughts of an entirely different type of massage came to mind, and Erik felt himself quirk a small smile as he imagined his little nurse and her competent hands tending to him in that manner as well.

It was the first true smile he'd had in months.

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_**A/N:**_ So-o…what are your thoughts concerning the progression of our dynamic duo? Erik and his depression? Christine and her deception? The footbath? ;D

More soon, dear readers,

PFP


	8. Settling In

Ch. 8— Settling In

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Christine was exhausted!

After making certain his feet were bathed and dressed, and giving him his shoes, Christine had seen the little cottage scoured from top to bottom, working well through the night.

A détente of sorts had been founded between them since she had bathed and ministered to his feet, and he kept clear of her as she worked; not giving her a word of encouragement, but not telling her to leave either.

In short, he let her do her job.

The cottage was all one level with a master bedroom to the side of the parlor and a smaller bedroom-cum-office off the kitchen. The hallway in between held the bathroom which thankfully had all modern amenities including a claw-foot porcelain tub and shower fixture.

She had discovered hot water and all the electricity ran from a gas-powered generator found near the back of the kitchen. Due to the war, electricity from the city had proved too unreliable, and so, Dr. Khan had thought to outfit the cottage with an electrical generator that would keep the appliances running provided there was petrol in the tank to fuel it.

Not wanting to waste precious fuel, Christine found some oil lamps, and lighting them, began setting the small cottage to rights, using remains of the broken furniture to fuel the small pot-bellied stove and warm the cold cottage.

She carted crates and crates of empty –and some half-filled— liquor bottles to the front door for disposal in the morning, and she set aside the numerous papers she found scattered, vowing to read them at the first available opportunity.

Then a little before midnight, Christine examined the contents of the larder, and discovered them severely wanting: a jar of pickles, a glass of some kind of raw egg concoction, and a moldy-looking wheel of cheese. Dipping into the stores Dr. Khan had urged her to bring, Christine made them Spam sandwiches using some of the canned meat, cheese, and sliced bread she'd brought.

Setting it before him with a glass of water, she was gratified to come back later and find the sandwich and pickle eaten. The water was left untouched. A half-filled bottle of liquor and a nearly empty tumbler lay beside the empty plate, and Mr. D'Anton was laid out on the couch, his drooping mouth open in a slight snore, oblivious to all.

Shaking her head, Christine nabbed the bottle and put it with the others to be taken out and disposed of at first light, and covering him with one of the clean blankets she'd found, left him to his rest.

Finally, around three in the morning, she deemed the cottage habitable enough, and made her way to the small bedroom off to the kitchen that she was going to call her own.

It, too, was filled with clutter and debris, but Christine didn't have the energy or wherewithal to care. Folding back the mattress from where it was stored, she sloppily made up the bed with the clean linens she'd found. And undressing to her chemise and slip, she laid her head down on her pillow and closed her eyes.

A moment later, she was sound asleep.

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Glass bottles smashed and broke, waking her, and jackknifing in bed, Christine scrambled to her feet with a start.

"Mr. D'Anton?!" she yelled, as she threw on her shoes and ran to the source of the noise.

Surely he couldn't have fallen on the glass! She had made sure the crates were tucked well behind the front door, out of the way of the main thoroughfare. What if he was rifling through the trash, looking for his liquor? Christine's heart sped up as she turned the corner to the foyer and came to a dead stop.

An intruder stood beside the door.

Thinking fast, she grabbed a sharp-tipped umbrella from the stand beside her and brandished it at the thief. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?!"

The man's eyes widened in shock as he looked her up and down, and he backed up a step towards the door, the crate he was carrying off his only defense against Christine and her pointy weapon. The man looked scruffy in his faded cap, jacket, and weathered dungarees. And he quickly averted his eyes from hers in a very suspicious manner.

Christine backed up a step, not liking this new turn of events at all. "Stay back! I swear to God if you come any closer—" She took another step back and bumped flush against Mr. D'Anton's chest.

"Ms. Daae? What is the meaning of this?"He caught her at the shoulders and ran his hands along her arms until he felt her hands and the umbrella she wielded in front of her as a weapon.

"Beggin' yer pardon ma'am, Mr. Erik, sir." She immediately felt Mr. D'Anton's posture relax as the intruder spoke. "I jes' come along with the things you requested for the week 's all, sir."

"Ah. At ease Ms. Daae; the man you are threatening to thrash with that umbrella is my valet. Andre, I would like you to meet the new housekeeper and security expert for the E.C., Mademoiselle Daae."

"G'mornin' ma'am. I'm jus' a bringin' Mr. Erik's weekly supplies like he toll me." Christine watched as the man put down the crate he was carrying and doffed his hat to her, giving her an odd look. "Sorry to have awoken ye, but I wasn't spectin' a pile a' crates and sech by the door when I come… ya see, I have a key." He held up the shiny, metal key for her inspection.

Nodding, Christine lowered the umbrella she held, and as she did so, realized Mr. D'Anton's arms were still around her, gripping her hands. And she also realized he was bare-chested and dripping from having been interrupted in the bath. And it was late morning… and _she_ was dressed only in her chemise and slip in front of this strange man…Oh, what he must be thinking!

Blushing crimson, she quickly stepped away from both men and focused her eyes demurely on the floor.

However, in her periphery, she couldn't help but notice Mr. D'Anton was completely nude as he stood there in the hallway.

"Where are your clothes?!" she blurted out, scandalized; instantly looking up at the ceiling for she was now mortified to look anywhere else.

Mr. D'Anton looked to where her voice had come and said wryly, "I was looking for another of your jackets, my dear nurse, for I couldn't find a towel. Andre, please unload the crate in the liquor cabinet and help cart away the mess in the foyer. Also, hausfrau Daae might have one or two tasks for you to complete around here if you're amenable? The dear hausfrau will make it worth your while, I assure you."

So saying, naked and absolutely unashamed, the scarred and blind man turned and with a slight limp, walked bold as brass back through the hallway to the bathroom, closing the door as Christine's cheeks burned red.

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Erik closed his sightless eyes as he settled back into the warm water. It had been longer than he cared to admit since he'd taken the time to bathe, let alone luxuriate in the tub.

He'd had to run the water twice in order to get rid of the stench, but he did, washing and rinsing himself thoroughly, feeling the uneven stubble on his mangled face and the long, lanky hair falling down past his nape.

Something would need to be done about that and soon. He hated being anything but clean-shaven, and with the scars and long hair, he imagined he looked like an aborigine come fresh from the wilds. But that was for later.

For now, he could lie back and remember.

Oh, his proper little nurse and her scandalized tone!

How he would've loved to have seen her expression when she realized he was naked! An image of Ms. Daae came to Erik's mind.

While in the hospital, he had often thought about what she looked like.

From previous encounters with her, he knew she was small-proportioned—perhaps five foot one if she was an inch.

He imagined her hair to be curly, framing a sweetheart confection of a face with a pointed, stubborn chin. She would have beautiful blond hair, as favoring most Swedes, and eyes that were the purest sapphire blue, perhaps green?... …no, blue. Remembering her pressed against him, held in his arms as she trembled, holding that ridiculous umbrella, Erik took his fantasy a bit further, also recalling her gentle touch as she ministered to his feet.

Taking himself in hand, he slowly began to move up and down as he thought of the little nurse and her bewitching voice. God, but he would love to hear her laugh! He just bet it was a husky, sultry sigh of a thing, elegant and just a tinge naughty. And her smell! Good God, her smell drove him to the brink! Sunshine, springtime, and lavender soap—something so simple, and yet, it set his loins afire. He inhaled deeply, and he could just detect the faintest note of her scent in the air.

His hand moved faster as he recalled how she fit so petitely in his arms, wielding that ridiculous umbrella. His bare chest had brushed against her back, and it had been silk-clad… she had just been dressed in her chemise then. Her chemise, slip and perhaps… nothing else?

Erik groaned as he pictured his hands encircling her waist, cradling her as he ground against her in a lover's embrace. He twitched in his hand on the upstroke, coming close to the brink—

"Mr. D'Anton?"

Erik came with a silent groan to her voice calling his name, hanging his head and mutely gasping out his release.

"Mr. D'Anton, sir, are you alright?"

Attempting to regain a modicum of his dignity, Erik answered more curtly than he intended, "What is it, girl?"

"I-I just wanted to let you know there's a clean towel and change of clothes at the base of the door, sir. That's all."

Not trusting himself to speak further, he heard her retreating footsteps, and drew a shaky breath. She had almost caught him at it! He laughed to himself, feeling strangely lighthearted.

How long had it been since he'd taken the time to pleasure himself? Meetings with Carlotta had been few and far between towards the end of the fighting in Paris, and dammit, Erik was a red-blooded, man in his prime, used to receiving his fair share of sexual overtures and advances. He never once strayed from his fiancé, that was for certain, but he was used to the act of sex—used to the rote movements and then release of it all. And he was pleased, pleased that even feeling as low as he felt in his broken, battered condition, he could still summon the spirit to give himself a helping hand.

Perhaps having little Nurse Daae around wasn't going to be so bad after all.

No…not bad at all.

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"Where the hell are they?!"

Christine turned from the dough she was kneading to face Mr. D'Anton.

She had wondered when this would happen—when he would realize that all of his bottles—his caches of liquor were gone. She had also given Andre strict instructions—and a large bribe from the money Dr. Khan had given her—never to carry bottles of liquor into the house again.

As she observed him, she noticed Mr. D'Anton looked better after his bath, more relaxed and less wild-looking… though she still needed to tend to his face. The stitches needed to be removed and antibiotic ointment applied. In the unburned, unscarred places, hair still continued to grow, and he was looking quite seedy with his hair falling almost to his nape. She bit her lip and took a step back as she read his expression.

It was murderous.

"Ms. Daae, I will not ask you again. Where. Are. They?"

Wiping her hands on her apron, Christine turned her back on him to check the progress of the loaf she had baking in the oven; it only lacked a few minutes more before it would be done, already the edges were starting to crisp.

She turned around to find him upon her. He had moved as silently as a cat, and she was now pinned between him and the closed oven door.

She gulped. "Mr. D'Anton, I need to know to what you are referring." She was proud her voice only shook the slightest bit.

He lowered his face until it was inches from her own; his honey-hued eyes staring sightless daggers at her. "I am referring, Ms. Daae, to the fresh supply of liquor that was supposed to be placed in the sideboard but now stands _empty_." He took a menacing step towards her, and Christine took another step back, her legs meeting the hot oven door. She winced, a hiss of pain escaping her lips. "_**Tell me where they are, Nurse Daae.**_ _**NOW!**_"

Strangely, Christine felt herself complying to his command, even as she tried to bite back the words, "I threw them all out. I also told Andre they were no longer necessary and paid him not to bring any more to the cottage."

"_**YOU WHAT?!**_" he roared in her face, and Christine took another involuntary step back, preferring blistered calves to the certain doom his expression assured would be hers.

"_**Go fetch them from the trash**_," Mr. D'Anton ordered lowly. "_**NOW!**_"

Even as she told herself not to, even as she was chiding herself, asking herself why she was doing it, she was already there, rooting through the trash until she'd found all the bottles of liquor she'd thrown out—even the ones with only a swallow or two remaining, and two by two, Christine carried them back into the house and began to restock the sideboard with them.

She looked up to find Mr. D'Anton waiting for her there, and she saw his hand shake as he gropingly reached for one of the bottles she'd just sat down.

Christine turned away as she heard him drink.

_Why?! Why did she do it?_ She had told herself she was not going to tolerate any kind of alcohol in this house, so why did she go back on her word.

"You no doubt are wondering how I did that, Nurse Daae; made you do something so completely against your will." She turned back around to face him and watched as he groped for one of the glass tumblers and poured himself a measure of alcohol, using his finger to gauge distance. "Please, for the conversation we are about to have, _I insist you have a seat_."

Christine was seated in the chair across from him before she even knew it. She watched as he felt along the edge of the other chair until he was seated facing her.

His posture was relaxed, friendly now, his expression calm as he spoke, "Some might call it a talent, others might call it a devil's gift, but regardless of that fact, Ms. Daae, I have the ability to entrance and enthrall those of weaker intellects with the power of my voice." He smiled a lop-sided, cynical grin and took another sip from the tumbler he held, saluting her jauntily with it. "I was born with this gift and have used it quite effectively over the years to get what I want when I want it. My poor, dear mother, God rest her soul, was beside herself with such a child as me, but I digress. I want you to repeat after me: _I, Christine Daae_," Christine felt herself repeating his words even as she was urging herself to stop, "_vow never to touch another bottle of liquor in this cottage so long as I reside here under its roof." _She repeated his words verbatim, and he snapped his fingers.

Christine blinked, coming out of the trance he'd had her under. "Do you understand, Ms. Daae?"

Blushing, Christine rose quickly from the chair and turned her back on him. "_I asked you if you understood, girl._ And I most certainly did not dismiss you. _**Sit. Back. down**_."

She was seated before him again before she registered the thought.

He reached out, and groping, touched her leg; she jerked away, and he smiled again, that bitter, cynical smile. "Just making certain you were following orders, Nurse Daae. That's all." He sat up, and twirled his fingers over the tumbler he held. "Now, knowing what you know about me and my peculiar gift, I will ask you honestly, do want to leave? My offer still stands. I will pay you double what Nadir quoted you for leaving me to my own devices and going back to the little hell-hole of a hospital whence you came."

Christine inhaled sharply, the smell of burning bread teasing her nostrils. "Sir? I need to see to the brea—"

"_You need to answer my question, Nurse Daae! Do you want to return? Yes or no?_"

She grit her jaw as the answer was wrested from her, "No."

He smiled again his cynical, lopsided grin, the right side of his face unmoving. "A glutton for punishment are you, my girl? Well, you'll get no sympathy from me. Now get in there and see to your bread. It's filling the house with its stink."

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_**A/N:**_ A note for clarification: In case you haven't noticed, my readers, when Erik tells Christine to do something, and speaks in '_Italics_', he is using his Angel's _voice_ to force her compliance. If he tells her in _**BOLD ANGRY ITALIC CAPS as well as bold italic font**_… then he's using his _voice_ as well as his anger to direct her.

Although I'm certain Christine is a dab hand at baking, I've never baked a loaf of bread in my life, dear reader. *the authoress looks around and cringes at the piles and piles of take-out boxes stacked in her kitchen* And as such, credit for the bread-making portion of this fic goes solely to _**FP33 **_who pointed out a few inconsistencies that had this authoress perplexed. You're amazing, lady!

Well, what did you think of the entrance of M. Andre, Erik's valet? Erik's private errm… _moment_ in the bath? Did he overreact, you think, to Christine's new policy concerning alcohol? And what of his vocal gift? Now that Christine is aware he holds such power over her…I wonder what will happen…. will it be enough, you think, to send our little nurse running for the hills?

Please leave a review to let me know what you think. :D

More soon, dear readers. Keep watch,

_**PFP**_


	9. Tea and Conversation of a sort

_**A/N:**_ This chapter is dedicated to 'Reader'. You know who you are. ;D

_**PFP**_

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Ch. 9— Tea and Conversation… of a sort

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Erik had spoken the truth of his voice to her.

Well alright, he had spoken the truth _to a certain extent_.

Although he did have the power to 'entrance and enthrall' with his voice, there was nothing mysterious about 'the gift' he'd told Ms. Daae he'd been given since birth. After all, with the right training, anyone could do it.

He had misled her, as he did all who fell deeply enthrall under his 'devil's gift'. He made her think there was some element of the supernatural at work.

However, the truth was far more mundane.

It was a skill he had acquired from a hypnotist when the man did a tour of performances at the Populaire: the opera house where his mother had worked as a housekeeper and of which Erik now owned.

The hypnotic aspect of his voice was a talent Erik had spent years honing to a razor's edge. And although it effected all who could hear it to a certain extent, he had found over the years the influence of his voice had less to do with the subject's intelligence and more to do with their musical ear.

In essence, his voice—the suggestive power of it— was _most_ effective on those musically inclined—those that music truly held in its thrall. And he had also found the more open-minded the person was to the existence of 'magic' or the supernatural, the more susceptible he/she was to the power of suggestion in his voice.

Thus the ruse.

With the way the girl had reacted to his hypnotic suggestions, Erik would not be surprised to learn she was a child of music … nursed at its breast, and with her father a professor…. well, his mind spun with possibilities.

But the only problem was Ms. Daae had professed she hated music which was patently absurd! No one hated music… at least, not _all_ types of music. And she was obviously blessed with a gifted, discerning ear, so… why the hatred?

He toyed with idea of just coming out and asking her why, but with the way he'd acted this morning, he'd be very surprised if his little mouse answered such a personal question, let alone made an appearance any time before breakfast tomorrow.

And it would be well within the bounds of what he deserved.

He forcibly set aside the tumbler in his hand and stood.

The girl had been right in her own teetotalitarian way, but he wasn't ready. No, he wasn't, not to give up this crutch, nor the others he had acquired over the years of war. Absently patting his pocket, Erik reached for a cigarette and drawing his lighter, lit up and inhaled, letting the smoke soothe him.

Oh, he supposed he owed her an apology, but Erik never apologized for the gifts he'd been given, namely his astute powers of observation and comprehension. And he refused to apologize for those advantages he'd been handed in this life.

At an early age, he'd learned the hard way the ways of the world, and he'd fought ruthlessly, clawing and scrabbling to get where he was today. After all, his had been no primrose path, God rest his poor, beleaguered mother's soul.

His mother…

His mother certainly wouldn't have approved of his new smoking habit… nor of the numerous bottles of suds he now kept hidden throughout the house. No, she wouldn't have approved of that at all… nor his treatment of the girl.

Deciding that perhaps he'd been a bit too rash in hypnotizing her and forcing her compliance, Erik limped confidently through the cottage, not stumbling in the slightest, in his quest to find his little nurse.

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Looking up at the weak sunshine from her position near the bluff, Christine leaned back in one of the two Adirondack chairs that were facing the cliff's edge in the backyard of the little cottage. It was a watery-gray day, the sky matching the endless steel color of the sea. But it wasn't raining, and she thanked her lucky stars for that.

Early in the afternoon, she had finally finished the last bit of tidying up the cottage needed. The floors had been polished and waxed until they shone, the place cleared completely of dust, clutter and debris, the two bedrooms aired, changed, and prepared for habitation—for Mr. D'Anton had been sleeping on the couch—and every dish that wasn't broken, washed and put away.

Oh, how she ached!

But she couldn't sit down, not in that place where she was still so much a stranger and very much unwelcome. A place where he was sure to be, and it felt too cowardly to hole herself up in her room. And so, Christine had taken herself out of the unfamiliar house that she now called home and gone to the backyard where she could look out to the sea.

Not for the first time a thought occurred to heras a little voice in the back of her mind whispered: _If you find being here so intolerable, why do you stay?_

She needed the money, she tried to tell herself.

But that wasn't it… not really. If she was just there for the money, she would have taken Mr. D'Anton up on his offer to double her already more than generous salary and left immediately.

So why did she continue to stay when he'd made it so abundantly clear she should leave?

Knowing what she did about the man and his entrancing voice; the fact that he could do that to her still mystified her. And hours later, Christine was still having a hard time believing it truly happened. Yet, it had. He'd forced her compliance in the matter of the alcohol just as he'd done with the telephone when he was at the hospital, and he'd done so ruthlessly.

If she had any sense whatsoever, she would be on the next train out of Le Havre tonight if possible—going wherever it would take her.

But that was it, if she listened to her father… and obliquely to what Mr. D'Anton had just told her… those that fell under his voice's power were lacking sense.

And her father had often accused her of being: 'a fanciful dreamer not fit for anything fancy'; the memory of those words stung. But it was the words Mr. D'Anton had used that worried her: 'those of weaker intellects' who were more prone to the suggestive nature of his voice.

Christine had always prided herself on her quick mind if not her ready wit.

She was too introspective and cared too much for others' thoughts and feelings to speak her mind plainly without consideration. But she did read and collect information like a sponge, and she stored it, never knowing when one day it would come in handy… like the Latin with Mr. D'Anton… or her ability to make soda bread with the ingredients she had brought and the ones she found in the larder. Granted, she'd had to toss the first loaf away because it was burnt beyond all recognition, but the next one she'd made was perfect, and it was this one they would be having with dinner.

That was i_f_ she ever mustered enough courage to go back in the cottage and make it.

It was cold out, exposed as she was in the backyard to the November chill, but she'd brought along a thermos of hot tea, a book, and a blanket in addition to her warmest coat. And she was currently ensconced in one of her favorite gothic romances: _Wuthering Heights_.

Putting aside her own cares and troubles, she lost herself in someone else's for a time and was transported to the wild moors of England and the tumultuous romance of Catherine and her Heathcliff.

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_Catherine._ Christine heard his voice calling her name on the wind.

"Ms. Daae… are you here?"

"Heathcliff, I'm here…"

_Catherine_, a softly yearning voice intoned.

"Ms. Daae….?"

"I'm coming, Heathcliff!"

She awoke with a start to the feel of Mr. D'Anton's hand groping for her shoulder, the taste of the fictional Heathcliff's name still on her lips. She blushed coming back to herself and noticed the book still open in her lap with her thermos of tea gone cold sitting next to her.

Keeping hold of her shoulder, Mr. D'Anton spoke tersely, "Tell me you have not been out here all afternoon, Nurse Daae."

Still blinking blearily from her unplanned nap, she looked up to find Mr. D'Anton staring down at the place where she sat, a disapproving scowl on his scarred face, making him appear even more severe in the shadowed evening light.

Christine looked around. Dusk had fallen, and it was burgeoning very much on dark.

She had finished _Wuthering Heights_ earlier in the day and had only closed her eyes for just a second, or so it had seemed, as she imagined her Heathcliff and the wild, grassy moors. "I—I guess I fell asleep," she answered mystified for it was completely unlike her to do so.

"Well, come in and take a warm bath, my girl. You'll catch your death sitting out here all day with none but a thin blanket…" As if on cue, Christine sneezed, and Mr. D'Anton tsk'd. "That is, _if _you haven't already. Go on in, I'll make you some tea."

He ushered her ahead of him, and Christine went, turning to watch his progress.

Limping slightly, Mr. D'Anton felt the chair she had been sitting in to get his bearings before he made careful, measured steps as he retraced his way to the backdoor of the cottage. From her vantage point in the hallway, Christine saw him close then lock the door securely and begin to putter about the kitchen.

She shut the door to the bathroom quietly behind her.

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Erik had been worried, more worried than he cared to admit when he couldn't find her in the little cottage, especially as the hours passed and day edged towards night.

At first, he thought she'd gone for a walk, but then, when she didn't return, his concern increased. What if, after the way he'd treated her, she had left him for good? He'd even gone to her room and drew a measure of comfort from the fact that her things appeared to still be there.

But the fact that they were had opened the door to a whole other slough of worries and concerns.

The images in his mind's eye grew more and more disturbed as each moment passed and she still hadn't returned. All sorts of terrifying things began to occur to him that could have happened to her: a wandering German soldier, perhaps she'd gotten lost on her walk, perhaps she'd even met with an undetonated grenade?

The possibilities were endless, and the idea to check the backyard of the cottage was born from desperation.

When Erik had first arrived to the cottage, he'd teased himself with the idea of going out on a lark and tumbling over the edge of the cliff. The idea held a romantic symmetry for him, and it became a kind of balm to tell himself that he could always do it if he wanted to. And it wouldn't be considered suicide, not for the foolish blind man who only went out for some 'air'.

And though he often opened the backdoor and teased himself with thoughts of death, he had never taken a step outside to actually face it. In fact, he had locked the door against it, giving himself time, always keeping it as an option—the final option should he ultimately decide to end things.

The backyard was the last place to check before he would have to consider her missing; his hands shook as he unlocked the door.

But this time, he wasn't envisioning going out there to kill himself, and he had drawn courage from the thought. It was his little nurse that caused him to face the crucible he had forged for himself—to face this particular terrifying hell. And using memory, and every sense he still possessed, Erik had made his way to where he remembered the two Adirondack chairs being near the cliff's edge.

If he lost his bearings, misplaced his steps in count, he would be over the cliff to the sharp rocks below before he knew it.

When he had called out her name, and she mumbled something back in her sleep, he had felt his knees go weak in relief. He had called her name again, a nerve-wracking game of Blind Man's Bluff, and she had answered back with something that sounded very much like another man's name.

And as he now busied himself with the preparations for her tea, Erik's mind replayed those few seconds before he had located her chair, and he concluded that yes, she had indeed muttered the name of another.

He felt a possessive jealousy take hold of him. It was gone in an instant, but still, the emotion was there…

_Heathcliff_… she had said Heathcliff. Archaic… surely the name was of a fictitious character and not his Ms. Daae yearning for a lover. The thought churned his stomach.

Erik had picked up the book that slid from her lap when she rose from the chair, tucking it under his arm for safekeeping. And he wished with all his heart he could read the title, having a feeling the book would tell him much about his little nurse and her romantic sensibilities.

As he began filling the kettle with water for her tea, he realized she had not moved things around the small kitchen for which he was grateful. In her setting of things to rights, she had, in point of fact, kept them rigidly the way they'd been before he'd decided in his blind rage to redecorate the cottage as he sightlessly saw fit.

Grudgingly, he had to admit the girl had been here less than two days, and already, she'd improved his quality of life drastically. All day today, it had been easier for him to navigate the cottage for he had noticed that not once had he tripped or stumbled on something in his way.

He was embarrassed to admit it, and he would never divulge it to her, but he'd misplaced his shoes the week before, and after a frantic bout of trying—and failing—to find them, had resigned himself to cuts and splinters from the numerous spindly-legged tables he'd destroyed. And for all he knew, it could've been the same damn one, he just kept shuffling and reshuffling through it, scattering the broken pieces thither and yon.

And yes, alright, it was easier to count his steps when he could focus on them and not have to worry about picking up a stray splinter or encountering a shard of glass.

Feeling around the cleanly organized counter, he reached out until he came across the canister of loose-leaf tea Nadir always kept for his guests. He opened it, fanning the lid under his nose to make certain he'd grabbed the right blend.

It would be just his luck to exchange the cardamom tea he was intending to make for Ms. Daae for Advieh: one of Nadir's more daring spice blends, and then serve it to her. And his little mouse would drink it and never let him know… for well Erik was coming to realize that this was Ms. Christine Daae's way.

No, it seemed she was more the type to accept things as they were with silence and resignation.

But he was used to tempestuous rages from the opposite sex.

The opera house was full of its share of divas from the lowliest of the wait staff to those occupying his dressing rooms with stars upon the door. His former diva had never once followed a hypnotic command issued from his voice.

And that fact alone should have been a red flag.

But at the time, he had liked Carlotta's fire… had found her passion for bedroom sport equal to that of his own—a rare commodity in his experience— and he had liked the fact that she refused to kowtow to him in any way—including obeying his vocal summons.

To him, she truly had been his 'little queen', and Erik had spoiled her lavishly because of it.

The kettle shrieked, jolting him from his thoughts, and with potholder in hand, he carefully reached to move it from the burner, turning off the gas as well. In the three months he'd spent in the cottage, he'd become somewhat adept at making tea… mostly as a hang-over cure, but sometimes, he would substitute his typical cup of 'hair o' the dog' for the cardamom blend he was going to serve Ms. Daae.

Gently reaching for a cup and saucer in the exposed shelf to his left, Erik found what he was looking for, dismayed when he realized there were only a scant few dishes of the once-beautiful set remaining.

Taking two pinches of tea, he put it in the cup and poured hot water over it, letting it steep. He would have to find out if she preferred milk or sugar in her tea, but that knowledge would have to be for later. In order to stave off the cold he was almost certain she was going to get from her stunt this afternoon, Erik decided to serve it to her straight, considering it punishment for her carelessness.

Carefully counting his steps, he shuffled his way to the bathroom and gently rapped upon the door. "Ms. Daae, I have your tea."

He heard startled lapping of the water as she sat up, and then her soft reply, "Umm, c-could you just leave it by the door, sir? I'll be out in a moment."

Erik tsk'd and opened the door, thinking her foolish for not having locked it in the first place.

He heard her gasp, and then scramble, more than likely clothing herself with the perfumed bubbles she used… or he dearly _hoped_ she used. How he wished he could see the sight!

Instead, he inhaled deeply, contenting himself with her wonderful scent.

He carefully walked to the lip of the tub, stopping when he felt the porcelain edge meet his shin. "Ms. Daae," he modified his tone to hold just the right hint of bad-temperedness, "I just went through an entire production to make this for you, and you're going to drink it… _hot_." He heard more water displace as she moved further away from him, and he held out the cup to her. "If it's any consolation, my dear nurse, you've got nothing I haven't seen before and nothing now that I can see." He raised his eyebrows, smiling wolfishly, just envisioning his prim, little nurse in her tub over-flowing with bubbles as she choked in indignation.

Still, she did not utter a word, and Erik began to feel foolish standing there like a statue—arms extended, waiting for her to take the cup.

Finally losing patience, he ordered, "_Take the cup and saucer, Ms. Daae._ This is not a request." By the water's lapping, he heard her moving towards his outstretched hands, and then his burden was being lifted. Yet, something—some effervescent substance remained, and Erik rubbed his forefinger and thumb together, tracing it as he gave an inward smile.

It seemed she did bathe with bubbles after all.

"Now, drink," he requested of her. The small rattle of the cup against the saucer as it was being lifted told him she was complying with his thinly-veiled request. "By the way, I would dearly like to know what book it was you were reading when you fell asleep so inauspiciously in the November chill. Was it something boring, Ms. Daae? A dull history or even duller biography? You strike me as the type who would enjoy such reading. Tell me, am I wrong?" Oh, but he was baiting his little mouse, trying to stir her from her hole, trying to rouse a spark of fire in her.

Not a peep did she utter however, not even a rattle of the saucer or a lapping of water betrayed her location or her thoughts. Erik toyed with the idea of seating himself on the lip of the tub to further discomfit her, provoke a response, but he was very much afraid he'd disgrace himself and fall into the bath, and then, where would they be?

Hmm, his mind seriously contemplated the notion before discounting it once more, filing it under 'fantasies to hopefully be enacted at a later date'.

He heard the cup and saucer rattle with an air of finality, and then her soft voice whispered, "Mr. D'Anton, I've finished my tea. Thank you." Her tone betrayed none but the most perfunctory of courtesy, and Erik took this as his cue to depart. He held out his hands for both cup and saucer, and unerringly, they were placed in his grip once more; this time without a trace of bubbles.

Unwilling to cede the field just yet, Erik stated, "If ever you find yourself in need of someone to wash your back, Nurse Daae, please don't hesitate to ask. As it happens, I'm a dab hand at such matters and offer my services willingly—free of charge; which is more than I can say for others who reside under this roof."

He expected at the very least an outraged gasp or perhaps even a wave of water tossed at his retreating back.

Silence.

Her silence was her only response.

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_**A/N:**_ You know, reviews are truly the only form of payment we get for time spent sweating over a comma. :P

_**PFP**_


	10. A Misunderstanding

Ch. 10— A Misunderstanding

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Christine was still shaking, even hours after he'd left her to her bath.

She had chosen to forgo making dinner. Thanks to her prompting of Mr. D'Anton's valet, there was meat in the larder and a variety of breads and cheese if Mr. D'Anton got peckish. The man certainly wouldn't starve, and Christine needed to think.

She lay bundled under mounds of blankets upon her bed, having not been out to feed the woodstove since before her bath. And given that it was now mid-November in Northern France, it was very chilly in the cottage.

The dim light from an oil lamp casting warm, yellow light, Christine bit her lip as she looked up at the ceiling wondering again what his appearance in the bathroom while she bathed meant.

Ostensibly, he'd wanted her to drink his tea—the tea he'd made especially for her … just. for. her!

But then his words… his continued presence, and the wicked things he'd said! And he was jesting about it all. As if he—a single, unattached man— being in the bathroom of a single, unattached woman that he barely even knew while she bathed was a normal, everyday occurrence.

And for him, perhaps it was?

Maybe that was the kind of life he'd led before being so grievously injured? Towards the end of his stay in the hospital, there had been rumors that both he and his fiancé lived together in an apartment. Christine wasn't naïve. She'd seen his fiancé; the woman oozed sex appeal. And she knew _exactly_ what went on behind the closed bedroom doors of most married and unmarried men and women… Well, alright, she didn't know _exactly_, but she knew enough to draw her own conclusions.

What was it Mr. D'Anton had said, "She had nothing he hasn't seen before and nothing that he could see…" Christine snorted, muffling the sound in her pillow. Well, for all the man knew, she could have three breasts and a hermaphroditic protrusion!

She didn't… but what if she did?!

Christine closed her eyes and squeezed them tight, her fists involuntarily clenching at her side as she lay buried under the covers, replaying each moment of the odd encounter in her mind's eye. For her, it had been the most shocking, thrilling, sensory-stimulating experience of her life!

It was singular. No man had ever said such scandalous things to her, let alone when she was bathing.

She supposed her first reaction should have been fear… she _had_ been shocked, but she couldn't be afraid of him. Of all the feelings Mr. D'Anton provoked in her, fear of him was furthest from the mark.

But she _was_ afraid.

She was afraid of herself when she was with him, afraid of what she'd say, how she'd react—how she _should_ react.

He had stood above her, ordering her to drink his tea, and then said such wicked things and smiled, looking every bit the devil incarnate with his crooked grin and gruesome scars.

And even scarred and blind as he was, the man _still_ was handsome. He had dressed in the clothes Christine had set out for him, the clothes he seemed to prefer: dress slacks, white cotton t-shirt, a white button-down shirt, and belt. But the clean clothes and bath had only been half of it. Even as filthy and well… repulsive as he had been when she had first arrived, she had still found the man attractive.

Scarred, blind, and with a limp … the man still had this _way_ about him that she was powerless to ignore despite telling herself that he just _couldn't_ be for her.

… and he had made her tea.

Delving into the seam at her pillow and carefully searching the bottom, Christine brought out one of the two pictures she had saved from the trash when she cleaned up the shattered fragments of frames in his hospital room what seemed like a lifetime ago.

Over the months since, she'd had occasion to look at them many times, especially when thoughts of Mr. D'Anton were most pressing on her mind. She had considered returning the pictures to his fiancé… after all, the woman might want them someday. Even though the newspapers said they were taking a break from their engagement at present.

It _really_ was such a good picture of them both.

The Opera Diva was stunning on his arm as they smiled before the cameras, the backdrop the glittering sepia-toned red carpet of the Opera Populaire. The both of them were dressed for a premier in formal attire— she dripping in pearls, wearing a gorgeous form-fitting black-sequined dress with a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination; he in a black tuxedo, bowtie, and white pocket square. A black fedora rimmed with white was perched jauntily on his head.

The caption on the back of the photograph read 'Premier _Dante's Inferno_—1939'.

Mr. D'Anton had been younger then, more carefree, and Christine could tell it in his bearing. Of course, this picture was taken before the war, before the Germans came to occupy France, before his life had been irrevocably altered.

She focused on his smile: the sheer wicked-handsome perfection in it. The man staring back at her was a god among men, bestowed of health, wealth, and plenty of leisure, any woman would want to have such a man on her arm...

But as Christine continued to look, she thought of all the smiles Mr. D'Anton had given _her_. They were such wry, crooked things usually accompanied by something wicked the man had said. And she felt herself smile in return as she gazed upon his photograph, recalling the bath-time tea where he had offered to scrub her back.

His face had been much altered from the one in the picture, but the essence was still the same.

The boy in the photograph was untried, untested by life; at least, to the extent that forged the man. Her smile turned sad as she gazed at the photograph in her hands. The image before her was one of the last vestiges of Mr. D'Anton's boyhood.

_Her_ Mr. D'Anton had been tested by time and trials, and he had come to this place, this 'Enchanted Cottage' to die for he couldn't accept the blows fate had dealt him….

She had to admit that she much preferred the man's smile now with his scarred face and crooked grin to that of the handsome, cocksure boy gazing back at her with such youthful, certain eyes.

Yes, she much preferred the _man's_ smile indeed.

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Erik slowly limped from the kitchen, down the hallway past the bathroom to his room, and then back again , passing by her little closet-like room off to the kitchen each time en route.

His little mouse had yet to utter a squeak since he had brought her the tea. Although, not even five minutes after he left her, Erik heard the water draining in the tub, and then the door to the bathroom opened and the door to her bedroom closed. And that had been where she had remained. He'd expected her to prepare his dinner. He'd expected her to put in an appearance at least.

Perhaps he was expecting too much?

He was tempted to knock on her door, lambast her for 'shirking her responsibility' _to the cottage_. First she had a nap, then she skipped his dinner. What the hell was Nadir paying her for if not to 'take care of the inhabitantsof the cottage'? He raised his hand to knock on her door, but a thought struck him that had him stopping where he stood, his hand paused midair.

He might have honestly scared the girl.

Erik closed his eyes, his hand flying to his scarred face. What if she was even now huddled in her room terrified of him?

Oh, dear God!

With his monster's face and 'devil's gift', he might have genuinely given her a fright, and she—little innocent that she was— hadn't known how to respond other than with perfunctory courtesy hoping that he would take the hint and leave!

He turned quickly away from her door and backtracked, bashing his side into the kitchen counter in his haste.

Dear God! He really was a monster.

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_**A/N:**_ Thanks be to the divine _**FantomPhan33**_ for beta-ing this mini chapter.

I know it's short, but I have my reasons for ending the chapter here. *authoress tries to look mysterious and all-knowing, but Erik creeps up silently behind her and flicks her on the ear.* Ow! Okay, okay! That's your shtick, not mine. *blushing, authoress rubs at aching ear and shoots Phantom narrow-eyed look.*

More soon, dear readers.

Keep watch,

_**PFP**_


	11. David and His Lyre

Ch. 11— David and His Lyre

So it came about whenever the evil spirit from God came to Saul, David would take the harp and play it with his hand; and Saul would be refreshed and be well, and the evil spirit would depart from him.

—1 Samuel 16:23

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Something had changed.

Christine didn't know what it was, she couldn't put her finger on it, but something in Mr. D'Anton's behavior had changed… as if overnight.

It had been two weeks since the 'bath time tea' as she was mentally referring to that singular episode. Two weeks and he'd hardly uttered a word to her.

She reviewed the cases notes Dr. Khan had given her, studied again the side notes both he and Nurse Tomlin had made and tried to actively involve and interest her patient in his care. Her attempts were met with scorn.

Every morning, she would wake and see to the chores around the little cottage, cook him breakfast—which he more than often ignored—and leave it on a tray by his door, clean, and see to the baking for the day.

Christine had raised the subject of her taking care of his face only once, and Mr. D'Anton had made certain she would never mention the topic again; at least, not without seriously considering the consequences.

She had mentioned in passing that she'd brought some antibiotic cream; that parts of his face looked infected and would most certainly be soothed by the cream; that she could quickly take care of the remaining stitches which needed to come out as painlessly as possible if he were to let her.

The pen stabbed into the wall and quivered only six inches from where she stood.

Mouth agape, Christine had stood there blinking at it. Six inches more to the left and the nib would have embedded itself in her eye. She would have been at the very least blinded… perhaps even dead. For the rest of the day, she'd holed up in her room, and since that day, she hadn't said a word about his face.

She lost her nerve.

In the two weeks since she'd arrived at the cottage, she noticed Mr. D'Anton did his best to steer clear of her. In fact, the man was elusive as a ghost.

While she bustled around seeing to the odds and ends, assisting Andre when he would bring crates of supplies to prepare the cottage for the long winter ahead, Mr. D'Anton would grab a pen, a bottle, a ream of blank paper, and go to his room.

And he wouldn't come out well until evening.

No meals were taken together for Christine didn't feel right sitting with him at the table, not when she was technically below his station, and then, he also never asked her to. More often than not, he ate in the living room, extracting chords from the small sideboard piano while he mostly drank his dinner.

Getting the man to actually _eat_ a meal was proving to be a challenge, and Christine could say nothing, do nothing about the bottle he consistently kept at his side.

The smoking was almost as bad.

Mr. D'Anton didn't sleep much, and she quickly found out after her arrival to the cottage that he could be up to all hours of the night, picking out notes on the piano well until morning. They never were actual songs, never more than a measure or two in length, and yet, there he sat playing staccato notes and chords until sunrise most nights.

And he did hole up in his bedroom for hours at a time. Only once had Christine made the mistake of listening outside his door when he had been in his bedroom for nine hours straight. She'd heard pen scratching paper, but nothing else, and she wondered how he did it... how he wrote blind… and why?

He'd caught her spying that day, either through hearing her footsteps or her breathing. Even now, Christine shivered as she recalled the memory of his voice cutting her to ribbons, calling her a 'prying, voyeuristic, peeping Thomasina'.

However, when he'd heard her outside the cottage foraging for left-over wooden logs from last winter's haul, he had ordered Andre to restock the supply in the house and bring a fresh cord of wood to the porch for this winter.

When at the cottage, Mr. Andre rarely talked to her. She didn't take offense to it; he just seemed to be that kind of man—quiet in his own way—a bit like her. He came now every other day, helping to prepare the cottage for the winter and helping her with the more strenuous tasks on Mr. D'Anton's orders. He also met with Mr. D'Anton in the living room from time to time.

Christine made herself scarce when this happened, feeling her presence in the little cottage distinctly unwanted.

He had not asked her again if she wanted to leave, but then, he barely talked to her at all. And the little cottage was always so quiet. If he wasn't plucking away at the piano or if Mr. Andre wasn't around, Christine felt quite lonely.

It was with luck she happened upon the old radio, and it was a miracle that it still worked for it was ancient.

And when she was certain Mr. D'Anton was immersed in his room, Christine turned it on and listened as she ironed and mended clothes. After all, it was nice to have someone else's voice in the small cottage besides her own, even if it was only talk of the progress of war.

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Erik listened as once more she turned off the radio before the music portion of the program could start.

There was no music in this house, and it was ironic considering he had _always_ been surrounded by music…

But he found he couldn't play as once he'd done. The inspiration for his craft was stagnant. _He_ was stagnant.

For him, the music had always been there. In times of stress and strain, it soothed him. In times of comfort and plenty, it flowed like fine wine.

Even in times such as now in his darkest depression, it was there, its siren's song urging him to continue to write, to compose, to put his feelings down on paper.

But he had no idea if what he was writing was even legible.

Just last week, Andre had told him his conductor Reyer couldn't read the musical score he'd sent. Apparently, Erik had used some of the same sheets over and over and supplanted musical notes on top of one another when he thought he was using a fresh sheet of paper each time. And then both Fermin and Reyer had expressed curiosity in how this could be the case: how he could have made such an error. And Andre had made some asinine explanation of 'notes bleedin' through atop the page' in order to save Erik from being found out.

Both Reyer and Fermin still did not know the extent of Erik's injuries.

He had lost his desire to compose once Andre had related this news. It was yet another god-damned thing he couldn't do because of this wretched blindness. He would need to have the cottage outfitted with a phone line…

Khan had suggested he hire a secretary or stenographer, but Erik had steadfastly refused. When he was in one of his manic creative fits, needing another there with him, having to explain his process instead of just putting it all down and then sorting it out later would be torture.

It would ruin it… _ruin him_.

And so, instead of working on a new score, orchestrating a new symphony, or even planning the grand re-opening gala that was scheduled to be taking place in spring, Erik sat in his bed and drank.

Drank and smoked, and contemplated just dropping a cigarette butt on the covers and letting the subsequent fire consume him thereby finishing the job the mortar shell had started.

The only reason, he told himself, he didn't do it was because there was a certain young woman with a distaste for music who was still in the cottage with him—still living with and taking care of him even after the discourteous and ill-mannered way his monstrous self had treated her.

Was he hiding from her?

_Perhaps. _

Was he hiding from himself?

_Definitely. _

Did he want to face the train wreck his life had become?

_Most definitely not_.

And so, he didn't.

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_Two weeks later…_

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It was raining again, the twelfth day in a row, and a month had passed since she had made the trek from Paris to this little cottage in Le Havre, and thus far, she and Mr. D'Anton cohabitated like strangers. rarely saw him now, for he kept mostly to his room, only coming out to relieve himself or grab a fresh bottle of liquor.

The writing, Christine noticed, as well as the plucking of the keys to all hours of the morning had stopped. She missed the sound.

It was a cold, blustery depressing rain, and she looked out the kitchen window towards the sea, feeling despondent and sad.

Today was the anniversary of her mother's death.

Christine barely remembered her, and the memories she had were fleeting at best, but she did recall her laughter, and she did remember her singing to her—a beautiful Swedish lullaby.

Her mother had contracted a cold that had developed into a chronic cough that had then turned into a rampant case of pneumonia. Everything had happened so quickly; it seemed one day her mother was feeling poorly but still in good health, and then the next, she was gone.

Christine had been five.

She'd tried distracting herself throughout the day, but holed up as she was in the little cottage, with no end to the rain in sight, there was only so much she could read and only so much talk of war she could stand to listen to on the radio. Sipping the warm tea she held and looking out at the rain and infinite gray sea that echoed the color of the clouds, Christine imagining a clear blue summer sky in the flower-dappled backyard with the sea a merry, cheerful blue.

Even _her_ imagination struggled to picture the image.

Today always made her melancholy, made her wonder what her life would have been like had her mother survived. Would her father have tried harder to include Christine into his life, his dreams, his world versus judging her unfit and shutting her out?

But she had been this route before—the ever-present Gordian knot—and Christine was sick to death of it. Her mother hadn't survived, this was a fact. Her father had spent years telling her what a disappointment she was for not taking after her mother in any way besides her voice. This too was fact.

And she couldn't change the facts just as she couldn't change the past. But she could change the present, and that change started now. She needed something… some new _something_ to distract her, bring her out of herself, out of her own mind.

A thought struck her, and she made her way to the piano.

The papers she had picked up off the floor when she first arrived were still there untouched. Mr. D'Anton probably hadn't known they were there for she hadn't informed him, and she'd always meant to go through them, but she never found the time.

Well, what better time than the present?

Taking her tea over to the wingback chair near the woodstove, Christine delved into her little project, immediately riveted.

Music.

But not just any music…it was a musical score for an opera.

But instead of making her repulsed and dredging up old, painful memories… it drew her curiosity, made her want to keep reading: the improvisations, the quirky turns of musical phrase. The tempo even was so different from _anything_ she'd ever encountered before.

As she delved deeper, she began to realize the composer who wrote this was a genius!

She looked up at the closed bedroom door contemplating Mr. D'Anton in a new light. _Was this what he was doing when he holed up in his bedroom? With his paper and his blind scribblings?!_

She flipped through the stack she held, heartbroken to find some of the pages were torn and trampled beyond repair. Others had been used multiple times—apparently he'd thought he was using a fresh sheet and had accidently written over some of it again and again.

Her hands clammy with excitement, Christine all but ran to the kitchen table and began putting the sheet music in a semblance of order.

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It was late.

Erik's internal chronometer had not abandoned him when he went blind, and he was thankful for that.

His body always knew when it was day and when it was night. And though he rarely slept, he'd been known, especially of late, to escape to realms of deepest fantasy where he would forge new ideas and refine others for the operas and symphonies he hoped to create.

He had been trying to distance himself from Ms. Daae and maintain as much of a professional association as possible. Following his gross misconduct, he had expected her to leave and never return. After all, it's what he deserved for his words and his actions towards her. He had all but ignored her these last few weeks and had expected his little nurse to give up the ghost and consider him a lost cause.

He knew what a tremendous work ethic the girl had. She always kept herself busy while at the hospital, and that pattern held true even here in the tail-end of war-torn nowhere.

But she had stayed.

Nearly a month had passed, and she stayed, the both of them in the little cottage with only the shushing pattering of rain falling around them for any accompanying sound.

She did not attempt to talk to him.

Her forays to 'nurse' him had been met with such ire, she had quickly abandoned trying to do so, and Erik was ever thankful.

And so, they got along mostly in silence. She would knock on the door when she had prepared a meal, and he would (occasionally) endeavor to eat it. She would continue to feed the wooden stove throughout the day, and Erik (most nights) would keep the fire stoked as well; he hated to think she was in her bedroom cold. She would bustle around the house seeing to her little chores, and he would walk into a cloud of her scent from where she had just been standing and stand there transfixed, blinking into his ever-surrounding darkness, losing time and losing thought.

And yet, for all of that, it was warmer in the cottage with her here. It was a comfort to know that he need only ask, and she would be there at his beck and call. Not that he would ask such of her, but still, he drew comfort from the thought nonetheless.

Erik was toying with the idea of asking her to read to him.

Since he was no longer writing music, and now very rarely bothered to play his musical sketches let alone sit at the piano and truly give life and voice to his compositions, there was a melancholy about his heart that wouldn't ease. And he hoped very much his little mouse with her beautiful voice would help to lift the tedium and dispel the ache.

Lying on his bed with his eyes closed tight, Erik's mind churned with the hundreds of pressing concerns that were weighing on him—the opera, his future, his lack of a future… when he heard it.

The softest hum.

His sightless eyes shot open and his breathing stilled as he waited for the sound again. And there it was, another note: B sharp to D flat. He sat bolt upright in bed, his mouth opening on a silent gasp, not wanting to miss a moment of the sound.

The hum moved effortlessly up the octave to F sharp, and Erik was to the door before he even thought it, his hand on the knob ready to yank it open.

The humming ceased, and he leaned heavily against the door, his heart racing.

_Dear God!_

His little mouse… his… and she was humming, just humming for Christ's sakes! And her voice—_**THAT VOICE!**_

His entire body quivering, Erik prayed she would continue, prayed to the God he abhorred that she would prove to him this wasn't a trick of his poor, beleaguered imagination— that he really had just heard the voice of an angel.

She began to hum again, and he closed his eyes, bowing his head upon the door, his hand leaving the knob as he braced his arms against the doorframe listening. She was singing now; his little mouse was singing softly, quietly, as if…

It was as if she did not wish to _disturb_ him.

And that was laughable, hysterical even, when every atom in Erik's being had just been disturbed—purified, consecrated, and reformed by her quiet, angelic voice.

Now that she was singing more snatches of notes at a time, Erik recognized the piece… or rather pieces. They were _his_—two of his new compositions somehow spliced together and mixed up, and his little mouse—_HIS NEW DIVA_—was trying to sort the two… and not having very much success if he heard her correctly.

But still she was trying, and she was sublime.

His angel was sublime.

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_**A/N:**_ Reviews are love!

_**PFP**_


	12. If You Can't Be Good, Be Careful

Ch. 12— If You Can't Be Good, Be Careful

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He would have to play this carefully… oh so carefully.

With talent such as hers and a professed disdain of music—MUSIC— my god, such music… he would have to lure her, enchant her… perhaps even use the power of his voice to make her sing…

…no, that would never do.

He could not order such a thing of her… at least not with hypnotism. Without knowing her reasons for it, if she was so dead-set against the idea of singing, then hypnotizing her could break her somehow. No, he could not take that risk. But he could lure her into it… perhaps through her willing compliance?

Over the months Erik had been observing her, he'd noticed Ms. Daae was very good at taking orders; she thrived when someone needed her assistance and told her what to do.

She loved to please.

That wasn't a bad thing in his estimation. After all, his last diva was anything _but_ pleasing. Shuddering, Erik quickly abandoned that train of thought before it could wreck him.

The fact of the matter was the world could not be run if everyone wanted to lead; there were those that needed to follow.

And his Ms. Daae was a follower.

But she was meant to be a star… a bright, shining light in the world… and for such a little mouse.

Erik laughed to himself, smiling for the first time in a month—good God, what fate, what benevolent being put her within his grasp? For the first time since he'd been injured, he thanked the Almighty for blessing him in such a way.

A talent such as hers was meant to chase the sun. And here she was in the war-torn city of Le Havre playing _nursemaid_ to him! It was laughable! It was a travesty!

It meant she had her reasons.

And Erik would not rest, would not cease until he ferreted each and every one of them out and made her see that the stage was where she truly deserved to be.

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"Ms. Daae, I have need of your assistance."

Christine jumped, the pot she was scouring clattered to the bottom of the sink sloshing suds every which way as she looked up. Mr. D'Anton stood at the kitchen entrance, a hand upon the counter, his eyebrows raised in expectation as he insisted, "Now, Ms. Daae. You may leave the washing for later. Come."

She shut off the water, and drying her hands on her apron, Christine quickly removed it and hung it on the peg.

An impatient "I'm waiting," came from the living room.

She quickened her steps, wondering if now he would _finally_ let her tend to his face. She stopped in her tracks to see him seated at the piano, an entire ream of blank sheet music and an assortment of pens were on the breakfast tray she typically left by his door in the morning. The tray was in the wingback chair and the chair had been moved so that it sat by the piano, slightly behind the bench.

"You must tell me, Ms. Daae, does this sound familiar?"

He played for her the melody she had been trying to piece out last night up until the wee hours of morning; the melody that had been mixed up with the other on the page. He finished it, and she felt her heart skip a beat.

She'd been caught.

"No?" he asked, "How about this?" He played the other, darker piece; the incidentals that she had been trying to place suddenly made more sense now she heard it played correctly.

At the time, it hadn't occurred to her that what she was doing was wrong. She blushed, her throat going dry. "P-please, sir. I d-didn't mean to pry."

He turned around on the bench to face her, and drew his hands together resting at the knees. "And yet pry you did." Cocking his head to one side, he studied her, his sightless golden eyes sweeping over the place where she stood, making her fidget in place. "You couldn't have heard either of these pieces for I have not played them here; so I ask, where is the music you were reading from?"

Christine hurriedly went to fetch them from the kitchen counter, and returned, very proud of her night's work. "Please, sir. I've put them in a semblance of order. Some of them have been trampled, others unreadable, but really they're quite—"

"Feed them to the woodstove, Ms. Daae," he interrupted.

Christine clutched them to her chest. She had spent the better part of the afternoon and well into the night cataloguing and sorting them. "Bu—"

"You heard me, girl._ I_ do not stutter. Do it. _Now._"

Moving reluctantly, Christine opened the door to the woodstove and threw the painstakingly crafted and ordered sheet music inside, closing her eyes so she wouldn't have to watch it burn.

"Good girl. Now, come take a seat in the chair beside me. No doubt you've noticed the tray. You said your father was a professor of music. Of what did he profess?"

Christine made her way over to the chair positioned just behind the piano bench but did not sit. "V-violin, sir," she answered him, "but he also taught musical theory as well as music history, and led a seminar in critique."

Mr. D'Anton frowned down at the floor where she stood. "And dare I hope that the knowledge of the father passed to his daughter? Obviously some did otherwise you wouldn't have been able to purloin _my_ music and keep me up all hours of the night with your incessant humming of it."

"I didn't mean to—"

"What? You didn't mean to what, Ms. Daae? Pry into something that's none of your affair? I seem to recall warning you against such behavior before."

Christine pursed her lips together, looking down at her hands, trying hard not to cry.

"Your curiosity is what got you into this mess, my girl, and the only cure from rampant curiosity, in my estimation, is gluttony of knowledge so that you may learn from your mistake. And so, as fitting punishment, you can help me copy and set the musical score you stole to paper."

Shocked, she looked down at him. "But I didn't steal it," she said in a small voice.

He barked a laugh. "A matter of perspective I assure you, mademoiselle. It was _my_ intellectual property. Mine and mine alone to do with as I saw fit; the fact that those papers were out lying about still has no bearing on the fact that _you_ are now privy to my creative endeavoring. And I don't know if you're aware of this, but in terms of legalities, there are ramifications for what you've done."

Christine paled as his implied threat hit its mark. He was threatening to sue her… over his work?!

He continued, "That _preview_, my dear, that you've taken requires a form of payment. You told me once you found music distasteful; well, this truly should be a punishment for you then, should it not?" He smiled a wry, vicious grin, and Christine felt well and truly trapped by him and his absurd logic. "Now, take your seat, pick up the pen, and begin to transcribe as I play. Transcription is something you can do, yes?"

Taking her seat as he ordered, she licked her lips and picked up the pen, her hand trembling. "Y-yes, sir."

"Good." His tone was bright with approval as he gave her a crooked, winning smile. "Then I will give you direction as needed. You may begin."

He began to play, and as the first notes resounded, Christine's mouth opened in a silent 'oh' of wonder.

She had seen the music for the piece he was playing last night. It was one of the few that were legible, and she had tried to imagine how it was to be sung, how it was to be played, what instruments would accompany the fortunate singer and what words would convey the beautiful music portrayed.

She could practically _feel_ the longing of the piece even if it had no lyrics yet, no accompanimen— "Is there a problem, Ms. Daae? I do not hear you writing..." Mr. D'Anton had turned his head and was frowning over to where she sat, his fingers hovering over the keys expectantly. He'd stopped playing while she sat entranced, and Christine shook herself, taking herself firmly to task for becoming distracted.

He resumed, and this time, she focused on his skill. She had heard him playing clutches of notes, a few chords here and there, but… well, never anything like this! He was giving his all to what he was creating. His hands moved with the keys as if they were one with them—both ebony and ivory—just another extension of his will.

She was charmed by his hands watching them move, tripping up and down—and he was playing blind— proving how complete his mastery over this instrument wa— Mr. D'Anton cleared his throat, and realizing she'd once again lost herself in thought, Christine quickly put pen to paper and transcribed the first few notes as he started the piece over from the top.

But really, his playing was exquisite!

She'd been afraid she would write too slow or not be able to keep up with him. It turned out, she had been right to be afraid. Christine bit her lip, her frustration mounting as she began to get further and further behind. Closing her eyes and already preparing herself for the ear-blistering she was going to receive, she asked, "S-sir… is it possible for you to slow the tempo a bit more?"

"No, Ms. Daae, I will not," his hands crashed to a stop upon the keys as he snarled, "It's written _allegretto_ _and allegretto _it shall remain. _I am the composer, Ms. Daae— I compose. You are the transcriptionist—you transcribe. Do not dare to confuse the two._"

Christine blinked, taken aback by his tone, and then his meaning registered, and she shook her head emphatically. "I wasn't. I would never presume to— I just meant…" she drew a deep breath to calm herself, and looked over to where he was seated at the piano. His posture was rigid, his jaw tight. She asked quietly to his back, "Would you please play it more slowly? I'm having difficulty keeping up, sir."

"Ah," he muttered with the slightest hint of embarrassment, and Christine saw his posture relax as he turned towards her. He gave her one of his wry, crooked smiles, the right side of his face unmoving. "Forgive me, Ms. Daae. You see, this is punishment for both our sakes then—you because you hate music and me because I have to rely on the good will of another to give my creation form and meaning."

Christine bit her lip, trying to see the situation from his point of view.

She was not an artist… she did not create. But she could imagine how frustrating it would be to have to give even a part of her creation to another— especially one as integral as what she was having to do for him—literally be his eyes as he relied on memory and trusted in her to give his creation 'form and meaning' so that others could see it performed.

It was quite the intimate task he was setting her to do, and she knew him to be fiercely independent to the point of doing himself harm.

"Shall we begin again?" He asked apologetically.

Christine looked up from her thoughts to find him still turned towards her, one eyebrow raised in inquiry as his honey-hued eyes stared sightlessly over her right shoulder. Another frown marred his scarred visage, but she didn't think it was directed at her.

Feeling a greater sense of compassion for him, even if he chose to label this as 'punishment' for her, Christine took back up her pen and stated with poise, "Ready when you are, sir."

And so, once more he began to play, this time much more slowly, and she transcribed note for meticulous note.

Then he did it again, still just as slow, and he had her check her work, making certain she didn't miss a single note. And then once more, and this time, he had her add subtext: notes on diminuendo and crescendo, whether it was to be sung forte, pianissimo or some variant thereof, staccato or legato—and this was just the first four hours!

She looked up at him from her position hunched over the tea tray. A scant few perfect sheets of music lay completed beside her; a mound of crumpled paper lay in the floor awaiting the woodstove.

And this was only the arietta—the shortest of the arias to be performed!

Oh, but her hand ached!

Putting down the pen and stretching her cramped fingers, Christine rose from her seated position on a soundless groan. She had been sitting for hours on end, and she rolled her neck to try and loosen the muscles that were tense from being hunched over the tray for so long.

But she didn't begrudge one moment spent doing it for she'd been able to witness a genius's creative mind at work.

She had never before seen someone labor to create such art, let alone craft such faultless beauty. Her father, while a precise and gifted musician, had never had that spark of inspiration or creativity that Mr. D'Anton had just shown her.

Throughout the entire process, he was revising, and sometimes right in the middle of her transcription, he would play the piece starting from a few measures back and try it various ways… finally settling on one that sounded better to his ear. This would, of course, necessitate Christine starting with a fresh piece of blank sheet music, picking up where the changes left off and then copying to exact specification the notes from the previous sheet later.

Though more often than not, Christine agreed with him when he did decide to rework a certain section, but then, she'd also thought the arietta sounded perfect the first time she heard it played… until she heard him make a change: perhaps of only a single note, and it gave another color, another mood entirely to what he was attempting to portray.

He did several such revisions, and the final product—or at least what was written completely on paper—was a confection of sound.

Turning from his position at the piano, Mr. D'Anton smiled at her finally satisfied. "Now, my dear, you will play for me what you've written so that I know it is written correctly."

Christine gulped and shook her head, forgetting for the moment that he couldn't see her. "I-I don't play the piano, sir, at least not well. I don't play any instrument."

His honey-golden eyes narrowed to slits. "A child of music, and yet you do not play an instrument. Hmm, curious…and yet, you were humming last night. I take it you can sing, Ms. Daae?"

"No." She unconsciously took a step back.

He rose from the piano bench as well, and taking a step towards her, seemed to stalk her about the room, coming to stand before her as he looked down at the floor where she stood. The muscles in his jaw were tight, and she didn't like the calculating gleam in his eyes. "No, what, Ms. Daae?" He was frowning again.

"No, sir." She stated with finality, her chin going up. "I do not sing."

He shook his head and grinned. "I didn't ask if you _did_ sing, I asked if you could. _Can. You. Sing_?"

Christine pursed her lips, feeling the absurd need to cry. "Y-yes." The broken sound was wrested from her lips by the power of his voice.

He nodded. "Then do so, on an 'Ah' if you please so that I know it's written correctly."

Turning away from her in clear expectation of her compliance, he sat back down at the stool, his hands hovering over the keys. Mr. D'Anton muttered as an afterthought, "Pay attention to intonation and movement. While I am by no means expecting perfection, I am expecting you to at least have grasped what you've written and convey it accordingly. Frankly my dear, I don't care if you can carry a tune in a bucket, just as long as that bucket's in tune, if you get my meaning? Now begin."

He played the opening bars, and Christine began to tremble. She hadn't sung—not for an audience—not really at all since that night she'd overheard her father and his friend, and she was terrified.

He played her cue, and she missed it. He stopped and lingered on the note, pressing it loudly and repeatedly. "Ms. Daae, I'm waiting. Begin reading, now."

Reading… _not singing_. She was literally 'sight-reading' for him so that she could be his sight. He didn't care what she sounded like, he had said as much. And he didn't give a fig for what she looked like either. Physical appearance was a moot point with him.

Feeling measurably more at ease, Christine assumed the proper stance, leaning slightly forward as she had been taught and opening her heart's center wide. She sang the first two measures of notes on an 'Ah'.

Mr. D'Anton's fingers stumbled on the keys which in turn jarred her. "Keep going, keep going," he muttered irritably, keeping his face hunched close to the keys.

Focused as she was on the music in hand, Christine did.

.

.

.

Erik was going to have to rewrite the entire damn score.

The whole opera—minus the arietta he and his diva just worked through—would have to be scrapped and rewritten, and all because of one little mouse with an _INCREDIBLE_ vocal talent.

He was still smiling even hours after he'd finally sent her to bed, pressing upon her some more of Nadir's cardamom tea, sweetened with a dollop of honey as he'd discovered she preferred. It took everything within him not to kiss her as she left, not to give in to this puling need for contact. But, my God how he wanted to!

She had written it perfectly, and if that wasn't enough, his diva had gone on to sing it _perfectly_—_exactly_ as he'd envisioned it sung… and this with neither knowing the basic premise of the opera nor having lyrics to convey meaning. Just from his direction alone.

Exquisite.

He had been obliged to make 'revisions' to the score just so he could hear her sing a certain part again, and then he had her change it back, smiling to himself at the exasperation that crept into her voice when she sang it once more as previously written at his request.

His mind drifted to thoughts of Carlotta and what _she_ would have done when faced with such requests as he'd given his little mouse. Erik aborted that line of thought before it could form. No such comparison could exist for it would be like comparing the moon to the sun: a cold and remote satellite that all but disappeared when faced with the life-sustaining essence of the daystar's light.

He bowed his head, pressing his folded hands to his forehead, feeling a foreign urge to give thanks to the Almighty for this strange and wondrous boon. It almost, _almost_ made up for the injuries he'd sustained in war.

Yes, even the loss of his sight.

A gurgling noise disturbed him from his thoughts, and Erik cocked his head to the side listening intently. There it was again… a low growl. With bemusement, he realized it was his stomach; he was _actually_ hungry. And he hadn't felt this way since waking up in the hospital!

For once, he was saddened that Ms. Daae had not fixed him his supper. But then, he'd hardly given the poor girl the chance for he'd had them working from mid-afternoon until about an hour before midnight.

Wincing, Erik chastised himself for his neglect of her care.

Tomorrow, he would make certain she was fed _before_ they began work on the score, and he would have to remember to request breaks of her, for well he now knew his new diva would work herself unto death trying to please him.

Confidently navigating his way to the kitchen, Erik pulled cold cuts and cheese from the larder and set about making himself a sandwich, his mind filled with his Christine and the music they were destined to create.

.

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_**A/N:**_ Credit goes to_** FP33**_ for her mad beta skills! Oh, but that Erik sure can be a tricksy fellow, can he not? Ordering her about like he is, trapping her into transcribing and singing for him…

And reviews are such wonderful things… :D

_**PFP**_


	13. Out of Sight, Out of Mind

Ch. 13— Out of Sight, Out of Mind

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"Again. You are not giving the right mood to the piece. It needs to be sung with passion, with fire— triumphantly."

Christine looked over from her position standing beside the piano. They had been working on his score for the past three days.

Three days of _nothing_ but his music. Three days of her transcribing his work and then singing it back to him note for note.

Three days… and the cottage looked a mess, and frankly put, so did she.

Lowering the music she held, she looked over, studying her wayward charge as he sat at the piano.

His black hair was long now, falling past his shoulders; his jaw was still unshaven and scraggly in spots due to his uneven beard growth. But excitement shown in his honey-hued eyes, there was color in his formally sallow cheeks making the purple-tinged scars stand out vibrantly in contrast, and his smile—which had been delightfully present— had not left him for the last three days. Even now, when he was telling her _precisely_ where she was mistaken in singing the piece they were working on, he was still smiling about it.

Listening with half an ear as he continued on, she caught a glance at herself in the hallway mirror and cringed. Fly away hair in a haphazard bun that was coming undone at her nape, dark circles under her eyes that made her look far older than her years, and her face looked drawn and pinched as if she'd been ill.

In the last three days, Christine barely had a moment to herself. He hadn't let her. But she _had_ been fed sandwiches… Lord yes, and given tea—_copious_ amounts of tea with the precisely prescribed amount of honey she preferred.

_And_ he let her relieve herself on occasion… when it was warranted…. when he remembered.

For when Christine would ask him, he would say, "Just after this measure..." and then another hour would pass, and she still hadn't been dismissed. Yesterday it had gotten so bad, Christine left him, stood up mid-note and just walked out of the room.

He was there just outside the hallway waiting for her when she finished; his scarred face holding a disapproving scowl. "Ask permission first, Ms. Daae, if you please. You're on my time, my girl. Not your own."

Christine drew breath to argue the point, but he'd already turned around to walk back towards the piano.

And there she was once again standing by the piano, tired, hungry, and strung-out. And Mr. D'Anton was smiling to himself even now.

"Now, sing it again. Remember loudly, triumphantly."

Her eyes narrowed to slits. So help her, if she had to eat another sandwich for dinner, she was going to be ill! And she needed to bathe… _badly_. "Mr. D'Anton…"

"Now, you've missed your cue again. I surely hope this isn't habit forming, my dear."

"Mr. D'Anton—"

The music began to play. "And begin."

"MR. D'ANTON! I WON'T!"

His hands crashed on the keys as he turned to face her, fury in his eyes as he stared daggers at her shoulder. "You most certainly wi—"

"I will not!" She interrupted, placing her hands on her hips and leaning towards him, her fury matching his. "I need food—actual food—not sandwiches! I need a bath; I need rest, real honest-to-God sleep without you playing the piano full-stop until all hours of the morning!"

She drew a deep breath. "And I need to think about something _besides_ music!"

His mouth opened in shock. You would have thought she had blasphemed.

He rose from the bench to face her, and Christine took an involuntary step back, having to crane her neck to look up at him. "You listen to me, Diva Daae, _you will sing, and you will do so now_. That, my dear, is not a request."

Christine felt herself begin to comply to his mesmerism—his voiced command—but she choked back the notes, cutting them off before they could escape, a wrenching cry wrested from her lips as she clutched feebly at her head.

Ah, but the pain was horrendous! She whimpered; the sound pitiful in the now quiet room.

"Christ!" she heard him mutter, and then instantly he was at her side, groping for her shoulders, turning her in his arms, and then he was pulling her towards him.

She went rigid in his hold.

"Christine! I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, my dear." He continued mumbling words of apology as his hands cradled the back of her neck, his thumbs moving to her temples and massaging gently. His voice was soft and kind, and the pain slightly began to lessen.

For her part, Christine felt as if she were outside herself watching Mr. D'Anton hold her to him; it was surreal. She felt the shear skull-splitting agony of going against his direct order, but then again, she registered his arms around her, holding her tightly to him.

Had a man ever held her like this?

_Never. No man ever had._

_Not even her father._

"Say something, my girl. You have to say something to let me know you're alright. Did I break you?"

Christine blinked coming back to herself as he drew her even closer, his hold now frantic, his fingers almost bruising where they held her clutched to him. Their foreheads touched and he whispered, pleading, "Tell me I didn't break you, little mouse."

"N-no," Christine whispered, "I'm not broken, sir." Her eyes were still squeezed shut against the pain. Ah, but her head ached!

His hands immediately gentled their hold. "God, I'm sorry, my girl. More sorry than I can say."

She nodded, her lips pursing together.

He continued, "There is no excuse for my behavior. Of course you're entitled to all the things you requested and more."

Opening her eyes, Christine looked up at him. He stared unfocused down at her, and he was waiting for her to say something. Her chin lifted, and she drew a shaky breath. "_Demanded_," she exclaimed with certainty. "The things I asked for were not requests."

He seemed taken aback for a moment, but then he smiled that wry, crooked grin, and the fingers of one hand slid from the back of her neck to tap her on the chin. "Ah, but this little mouse is fast learning her rightful place."

Christine's heart tripped, and she gulped. His arm was still around her, and she fit so snuggly there, folded as she was into him. She began to tremble as she looked up.

He was smiling softly, repentantly at her now, and his hand stayed exactly where it was against her jaw, his thumb caressing. Her heart lodged in her throat.

Even with his expression so contrite, his eyes still held that spark of animation that had not dimmed since he first asked her to work on the score. And she was glad to see it for she wouldn't want his joy diminished, not for anything in the world!

…a thought struck her and she paled, her eyes going wide.

_Surely… Oh, God, surely she couldn't be falling in love with him!_

Staggering back from his grasp, Christine turned and fled the room.

.

.

.

Lowering his hands, Erik hung his head, his breathing ragged.

Stupid. Of all the bloody idiotic, imbecilic—he cursed himself a blue streak for his treatment of her. He'd lost her and all because of a momentary lapse of weakness on his part.

Why hadn't he noticed her trembling _before_ and pulled away? He'd scared her! He never should have touched her!

But when she uttered that forlorn little cry, he couldn't stop himself from drawing her into his arms and trying to offer her a measure of comfort. After all, _he_ was the reason for that sound. _He was the one that caused her pain!_

His little mouse who never complained, who never— not once until today—told him of _her_ needs, had finally found the courage to do so.

And had he listened?

NO!

He had ignored her, ignored her words as if they weren't there, and bulldozed through her protests. Then he'd used his voice, and she defied him. She had thrown off his hypnotic suggestion and dearly paid the price.

Groaning, Erik searched his pockets for his lighter and cigarettes, dismayed when he could find neither. Where the hell had he put them? He tried to remember the last time he'd had a cigarette, and with shock, realized it was going on four days ago.

The same went with having a drink.

He hobbled to the sideboard and poured himself a small dram of whiskey, savoring the fiery burn as it made its way down his gullet.

He'd frightened her—and hurt her—with his hypnotic commands ordering her to sing. And that was something he'd told himself he would _never_ do; and to compound it all, he'd touched her—had forced himself upon her—forced her into his embrace.

And in the process, he'd scared her so much she'd fled the room!

Never will he forget how she stiffened in his hold, going so rigid, and quaking like a leaf. And God only knew what she was imagining of him— a lecherous beast with his 'devil's gift' and scarred face.

And perhaps that face now reflected the man inside?

Putting down the tumbler he held in disgust, Erik again raised his hands to his face, forcing himself to feel the rigid, damaged flesh, tempted to claw at it.

This little ritual was becoming an exercise in torture as well as remembrance.

Too often over the past four months, it had been easy for him to forget the scars, so easy to forget they were even there.

After all, he didn't have to see them, did he? They weren't truly a consequence _for him_. Not really. Although he could feel the damage, he couldn't see it, couldn't picture it fully in his mind's eye.

What's the expression: _out of sight, out of mind_?

He could hardly forget he'd been blinded. Just as Nadir had said the consequences of his blindness had been far-reaching, influencing every aspect of his life. But he still pictured himself as he was _before_ the mortar shell had ripped him asunder: strong-jawed, straight nosed, bottom teeth slightly crooked. In essence, whole and handsome.

He was… _he_ _had been_… quite handsome.

But she saw him this way—_ this _was the face his Ms. Daae was forced to look upon daily, and Erik tried to see it from her perspective.

Rigid, star-burst patterned scarring near his left temple that was due to a piece of molten shrapnel burning him; half his eyebrow on that side had been destroyed when the skin there had melted. From there, the flesh crinkled into a multitude of scars, feeling almost to his touch like textured animal hide: thin in some spots, thick and scaly in others. His nose was still whole and intact, but the skin underneath—the dip above his upper lip— that had been burned and a thick scar… (what was the term Nadir had used?) a _keloid_ had grown in its place reaching to curl around the left side of his upper lip. His mouth, teeth, and tongue were fine. Of course, that was if one were to discount the entire right side of his face that now drooped forcing his mouth as well as the skin near his right eye, to draw perpetually downward.

In essence, he was hideous, almost beyond his ability to grasp. In fact, try as he might, Erik _still_ couldn't comprehend, even with the tangible evidence beneath his fingertips.

He had no right! No right at all to foist his attentions on Ms. Daae.

She was his Diva, although she did not yet know of his plans for her, and she could be nothing more to him.

As with his scars, Erik had to tell himself this over and over, hoping one day, he would actually believe it to be true.

.

.

.

Christine locked the bedroom door behind her, the first time she felt it necessary since coming to the cottage.

And it wasn't that she feared he would follow her.

No. She feared what she would do without the lock there to remind her.

She dove for her pillow and brought out the other picture, the _other_ she saved from the bin when she'd swept the shattered glass away. And her heart still beating triple-time, Christine forced herself to confront it.

_Look at it_, she told herself viciously. _Look!_

The picture was a four by six glossy of his fiancé in her boudoir. The Opera Diva was lying reclined on a bed in none but her silky black peignoir, stockings, garters, and a strategically placed feathered boa. Her spiked heels were crossed daintily at the ankle as she propped them against the wall above her, looking up at the camera with a 'come hither' expression. She wore a furtive smile, as if she knew a secret only the two of them—she and her intended—would ever know.

She was stunning.

This was what Mr. D'Anton was used to, this was what attracted him, and the type of woman he wanted: bombshell beautiful and dressed as she was, the Opera Diva could be a pinup girl.

The type of woman Christine would never be.

_Now look at yourself, _she ordered.

Christine ruthlessly gazed into the small mirror on the wall by her bed taking inventory of what she saw. Bulbous and deep-set, her father's hazel-brown eyes gawked back at her from her small, heart-shaped face, her eyes spaced too far apart. She had also inherited her father's 'Roman' nose, and it vied for dominance with her eyes. Her mouth was uneven, her chin a sharp point.

Her top lip was much fuller than the bottom, and it just didn't fit.

She examined herself, feature by mismatched feature, and then looked at the photograph of the perfect beauty she held in her hands. If Christine had inherited _only one_ of her father's oddly shaped attributes, she would have been comely, perhaps even beautiful. But put together, for a female, she was a mishmash of well… ugly, plain, homely or any other adjective to describe the fact that she was 'rather unfortunate looking'.

She didn't look anything like the woman in the photograph; practically the only trait she had in common with the Diva was gender.

_The woman in this picture is what Mr. D'Anton wants! This is the type he prefers. And don't you go forgetting it, Christine!_

After all, if the man wasn't blind, he would treat her as every other man had done: by looking straight past her, above her, or down at her feet. For with her features as mismatched as they were, she made others distinctly uncomfortable; she always had. And people found it difficult to look her in the eye.

_But not him,_ she whispered to herself.

Mr. D'Anton hadn't been made uncomfortable by her face. He wasn't aware of what she looked like, and what's more, he'd held her close to him, and it felt so wonderful to be held by him even if she didn't know what to do, how to respond._ Nor will you ever learn,_ she reminded herself viciously.

No, she couldn't allow herself to love him; her heart was going to break when she left as it was.

He was feeling better if the last three days were any indication. His spirit was on the mend. She didn't know what had caused the change in him; it seemed her sudden interest in his music had sparked it, and perhaps that's what he needed? Someone to take an interest in his music with him. Perhaps she should ask Dr. Khan if he could send someone to the cottage that could help him with his notes and transcriptions.

But even as she had the thought, she felt a pang of loss. She would miss it, miss the feeling she got from working so hard to get every note perfectly recorded for him. She would miss their interaction and his snarky asides at his writings, at himself, his running commentary as he labored to create a true work of art.

And yes, alright, she would miss singing for him.

He'd never complimented her, had never even made a single remark about the quality or tone of her voice—for good or for ill— but he _had_ corrected her technique, made her want to strive to sing better, be better, made her want to excel… _for him_.

And she hadn't felt that feeling in so long… so very long.

Sitting heavily on the bed, Christine had the bittersweet pang of regret. She couldn't stay here forever taking Dr. Khan's money under false pretenses, pretending to be a 'housekeeper' to her patient when that was furthest from the truth.

He was on the mend, and soon, he would no longer have need of her. For although he'd not regained his sight, Mr. D'Anton was doing remarkably well in adapting to his blindness, and if she were to get a transcriptionist for him, then it would be time for her to return to her duties as fledgling nurse, and he to return to his glittering world of music.

She would just have to keep her distance somehow… and pray that this infatuation—that most certainly was not love—went away.

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_**A/N:**_ Oh, but these two hearts… so battered and scarred… if only they'd just talk to one another, tell each other how they feel… *authoress lifts eyes heavenward and sighs*

Due to an unexpected day off for me while my car is in the shop, I foresee another update soon in the works, dear readers…. after all, just because I'm out of the commission, doesn't mean Erik and his Christine should have to be. ;D

Reviews are the grist that fuel this creative mill! Please let me know what you think of my little tale, won't you?

_**PFP**_


	14. Quid Pro Quo

Ch. 14— Quid Pro Quo

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"Ms. Daae, wake up. I have your dinner."

Christine's eyes flew open as she blinked blearily into the darkness. It was getting dark so early now. She looked at the alarm clock on her bedside table and read the time. _Six thirty._ He had let her sleep for three hours.

After her self-imposed lecture concerning her charge, Christine had unlocked the door and taken a shower: scrubbing herself viciously until she squeaked and shampooing her hair twice to cleanse it. And then she went back to her room, and collapsed on her bed in an exhausted heap, almost too tired to pull the covers over herself.

There was a knock once more on the door, and Christine heard the sound of a tray being sat gently on the floor.

_He'd made her dinner. _

Biting her lip, Christine crept from the bed, and opened the door the tiniest bit looking down. The tea tray held a bowl of steaming tomato soup, crackers, a book, and a pot full of tea. There was a note folded beneath the book in his crooked, barely legible handwriting. Opening the door wider, she peered out looking for him.

Mr. D'Anton was nowhere to be seen.

She listened for strains of the piano to let her know where he was; there were none.

The little cottage was silent.

Bending down, she grabbed the tray and brought it to her room, placing it on her bed. Had she ever taken a meal in bed before?

Lord knows she'd certainly served enough of them, but had someone ever prepare a meal for _her_ so that she could lounge in bed while she ate? No. This was yet another first, and Mr. D'Anton seemed full of them today.

Drawing the covers to her waist and then placing the tray on her lap, Christine took the folded note from under the book and read:

_**Ms. Daae,**_

_**You need to eat. **_

_**Accompanying this note, you will find dinner as demanded with not a sandwich in sight. I also am returning the book you misplaced when you fell asleep out of doors a few weeks ago in hopes that it may engage your mind with something other than the music I have imposed upon you. I will not play another note tonight so that you may rest. **_

_**E**_

Christine swallowed the dry knot suddenly formed in her throat.

Did the man honestly think his music was an imposition?! She bit her lip as she realized she might have just given him that impression. His music was wonderful, and it truly wasn't a hardship at all to work with him in such a way, it was just… well, the last three days reminded her so much of her life before when her father was still alive and her every waking thought filled with music.

Those feelings, those dreaded emotions could not be suppressed no matter how much she willed them to be, and the anxiety, the tension she felt combined with such little sleep… well, she had snapped.

She was coming to realize that Mr. D'Anton's way was first to admonish and then to do something kind; first making her tea, and now dinner and the return of her book.

Her eyes misted slightly as she picked up the spoon. How could she protect her heart against him?

How?

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.

.

Erik heard a throat clear and looked up from his seated position in the wingback chair.

The chair was, by far, the warmest place in the cottage for it was nestled beside the woodstove, and he'd been stoking the fire all afternoon to guard the house, and Ms. Daae, against the winter chill seeping in. He'd tried to occupy himself with thoughts of his upcoming opera, the grand-opening gala, his new Diva's debut, anything… but memories of his treatment of her kept intruding.

For the past three days, he'd been in a creative mania, not letting Ms. Daae sleep, barely letting her leave his side as he relied on her to record his compositions, to be his eyes so that he could give sole focus and breathe life into his music.

Before the war, he used to spend days—sometimes weeks on end—holed up in his music room writing a score, terrified his muse would desert him.

Never before could he have imagined composing while another was present, let alone it being _easier_ for him to do so.

But it was.

Ms. Daae was his good luck charm, his muse, _and_ his sight. The music flowed trippingly, effortlessly from his heart to his fingers, and his little mouse recorded each and every note, freeing him from having to do the tedious task himself.

By God, he should have done this years ago!

She spoke, dispelling his thoughts, "I wanted to thank you, sir… for making me dinner and returning my book." A note of chagrin crept into her voice as she continued, "It's well… it's one my favorites, and I didn't even realize it was missing until you returned it." He heard her draw a deep breath and then say all in a rush, "Errm, would you mind very much if I sat in here with you and read?"

His hands steepled, elbows on the arms of the chair, Erik tapped his fingertips together. "No, I don't mind, Ms. Daae. In fact, I would very much appreciate it if you sat right here," he indicated the chair he was sitting in, "and read to me."

He rose, and throwing on another couple logs to keep the fire stoked, Erik counted the few paces that would take him to a straight-backed chair propped in the corner. He brought it over towards the stove and faced it slightly away so she wouldn't be afflicted with the sight of his scarring.

Still, she hadn't moved from her position by the door, and Erik had to remind himself of his promise not to coerce her. He'd already asked so much, and this was yet another thing he was asking her to do—share of her free time, of her leisure pursuits—with him.

It was her choice whether to come into the room or not. _Hers._ He would not escort or compel her either way. And so, he waited by the straight-back chair with baited breath, expecting to hear her retreating footsteps as she left him.

Instead, he heard her light footfalls as they drew nearer and then her scent encompassed him, her perfume stronger now since she had bathed, and he inhaled deeply, letting it soothe him as she passed by on her way to the chair.

He heard the soft creak of springs as she sat in the wingback, and counting his steps Erik limped to the cedar chest, and removing a plaid flannel blanket, limped back over to her and draped it (he hoped) across her lap. He heard her small intake of breath, and drew back, dearly hoping he hadn't just given the girl another fright! Or God Forbid, missed his mark completely and covered up her head! If only he could see her expressions! His little quiet mouse—he never knew what she was thinking.

Groping for his chair, he sat stiffly with his back to her and waited patiently for her to begin.

She began to read, her voice tremulous in the silence of the cottage with only the crackling of the fire in the woodstove and the pattering rain outside for company:

_**1801.—I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect misanthropist's heaven: and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us.**_

Almost immediately Erik placed the title. _Wuthering Heights_. He smiled slightly to himself .Just as he'd suspected, the book told him much about Ms. Daae and her romantic sensibilities.

He'd been forced to read it at school many years ago, and he recollected he did not like it much at the time. It lacked adventure, swash-buckling romance, and a guaranteed happy ending. But with his little mouse reading, Erik found he was considering the story of the doomed romance between Heathcliff and his Catherine in an entirely different light.

Yes, he found himself reconsidering it indeed.

.

.

.

She read to him for an hour but no more because Mr. D'Anton made her stop, citing the need for Christine to save her voice. He sent her to bed with another cupful of tea—this time Chamomile— and an admonishment to get some sleep for tomorrow they would be hard at work on the score.

A thought occurred to her as she prepared for bed, brushing out and tying back her hair.

_She did not work for Mr. D'Anton._

Not really. She worked for Dr. Khan, and in the case notes he'd issued her, there had been very specific instructions about her patient's treatment and care.

Christine smiled to herself as she drew back the covers and climbed into bed.

How could she only just be realizing the true potential of the leverage she held over him? Just today, she had disobeyed a direct command given by Mr. D'Anton. It had hurt terribly, but she'd done it!

Armed with the knowledge that she _could_ disobey, that she wasn't a puppet on a string like he occasionally made her feel, Christine's mind spun with the implications of what that could mean. If she could throw off the suggestive nature of his voice, then she could stand on equal ground with him. If she refused to transcribe, refused to sing, then Mr. D'Anton could do nothing…nothing about it at all…

Christine slept peacefully for the first time in months.

.

.

.

She awoke as she had done the past few days to the sound of knocking upon her door. "Ms. Daae, it's time to rise."

Looking over at the bedside clock, Christine grimaced.

She was used to getting up early, but this was absurd! The man never slept, or if he did, he subsisted on very little. And Mr. D'Anton had a tendency to believe others shared his stamina and his single-minded pursuit of perfection. Between the extreme late nights and profane early mornings, she was definitely feeling sleep's lack.

Biting her lip, Christine rose from the bed, strengthening her resolve. Things were going to different around the little cottage.

They were going to be different… starting today.

.

.

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"Good morning, my dear. I trust you slept better?" Erik said as he heard her light footfalls coming down the hall.

Her beautiful voice spoke timidly into the morning quiet, "I did, sir, thank you. " She cleared her throat, and Erik was beginning to associate the particular sound with her preparing to voice a request. "I was thinking… I ought to make breakfast for us."

He shook his head, amused by her predictability. "Breakfast can wait, Ms. Daae. I want you to transcribe _this_ first." Erik began to play his newest piece as he envisioned it performed, and this had now become tradition for he liked having her hear his pieces _before_ she began to transcribe them.

He'd noticed his Ms. Daae had a tendency to become immersed in the music he played when he exposed her to a new composition. And it was difficult to gain her attention, sometimes even minutes _after_ he'd ceased playing. It seemed to him that she lost herself in the music he created.

Erik wouldn't have it any other way.

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Christine stood there transfixed for a time, listening to the melodic spell he cast, smiling softly as she watched him lose himself in his music. His long black hair had fallen so that it was a curtain shielding his face from her view. She stepped forward and took her place beside the piano—where she stood when he had her sing— and from this position, she could see his eyes were closed and the left side of his face was drawn into a beatific smile.

In times such as these, she was loath to disturb him, and she had to admit it was nice starting her day as he played softly for both of their enjoyment. He had a tendency, Christine noticed, to always save the 'sturm und drang'— those pieces filled with so much energy and strife— until well into the afternoon and evening thus giving respect to the morning stillness and reverence to the new day.

In contrast to his music's playing, the harsh morning light did little to soften Mr. D'Anton's distorted features, and instead of giving herself over to the music as she normally did and escaping into the enchantment he wove, Christine made herself examine his face and focus on his scars with a clinical detachment.

Some of them still looked infected, and the stitches remaining there needed to come out. Others had healed over, but with the calming cream she brought, she hoped to lessen the redness and ease the tight discomfort he surely must feel from their having healed in such a way.

Other places looked picked over as if he'd been scratching at them, and Christine inwardly tsk'd. And then, of course, there was the man's scraggly patches of beard. Oh, but he needed a haircut and a shave—badly!

The piece ended with a beautiful tinkling of notes that seemed to resound throughout the cottage long after the last chord had fallen away.

Christine hated to break the spell, but break it she must if she was going to make any headway whatsoever with him. "Mr. D'Anton, that was lovely, sir, but I must insist on making breakfast before I begin to transcribe. I still have yesterday's dishes to see to, and the cottage is looking very untidy. It needs to be cleaned."

"Andre comes today. He will see to it, and I will have him make a fine brunch for us both. Have a seat and begin," he told her affably.

Taking her compliance for granted, he began to sketch his melody on the piano in preparation for her putting it to paper.

"No."

The piano stilled.

"What was that, Ms. Daae?" His tone was questioning as if he didn't understand her.

Christine braced herself against the piano's edge, and with her chin up, stood her ground. She stated bravely, "I said no, Mr. D'Anton."

His golden eyes tracked to where she stood, looking somewhere near her naval. As she watched, his expression morphed from disbelief to complete fury.

"I dislike repeating myself, Ms. Daae. _**Sit down and begin transcribing.**_ _**NOW!**_"

Christine white knuckled the corner of the piano, gritting her teeth against the pain. She wanted to comply with every fiber of her being. She wanted to obey—SHE HAD TO OBEY! She stopped herself though, refusing to let go of the side of the piano even as her eyes longed for the comfort of the chair and the weight of the tea tray upon her lap. _Breathe in, Christine. Steady, girl. In and out. It will pass. The pain will pass. Let it come and go. _

_Breathe…_

Once she felt she could speak without whimpering or crying out, she looked back at him and said with certainty, even if her voice quavered, "I will not begin _your_ work, Mr. D'Anton, until my own is complete."

He stood up abruptly, knocking over the piano bench in his haste, and stepped towards her. "Your work _is_ my work, Ms. Daae, or have you forgotten." He took another menacing step, and Christine automatically wanted to take a step back, but at the last second stopped herself.

No. No more cowering. She was through with it! She was going to be strong.

Raising her chin, she said, "My work is that which Dr. Khan set me to do, sir. I am not employed by _you_, Mr. D'Anton."

He took another step until he stood toe-to-toe before her, towering over her. The only thing that stood between them was the side of the piano that Christine still had not relinquished from her white-knuckled hold.

His expression grim, he asked her, "Do you dare to defy me?" He uttered his question quietly, lethally.

Gathering her courage, Christine let go of the piano and stood up straight before him. "Yes. I do, sir."

She saw his eyes flash with golden fire, and he drew breath—possibly to issue another command— but Christine's hand flew to his mouth blocking the sound before she even realized what she'd done.

Shocked, he stood there, gaze unfocused, his eyes wide in disbelief, his mouth slightly open to her hand. A beat later and his hand fastened upon hers pulling it from his mouth, his eyes narrowed to slits, "_**You will never do that aga**_—"

"Please, hear me out," she yelled, interrupting him, as she began tugging on her hand within his grasp, entreating him to be gentle. Instead, he pulled her closer to him, erasing the remaining distance between them, and she went pleading, "There are things, sir, that need to be seen to around the cottage—"

"Andre will—"

"No, not Andre," she interjected, "_me_—I need to do them. It's what I'm being paid to do, sir. Not transcribe for you!"

He grit his jaw, "The letter clearly explained—"

"Yes," she again interrupted him, "Dr. Khan's letter clearly explained that I was to see after the 'interests of the cottage and any who occupy it'."

"Quite," he nodded tersely. "and Nadir went on to invite me to take 'full advantage of the amenities his new fixture' now provided—"

She shook her head. "At _my_ discretion, sir. Always at my discretion, and I'm telling you I cannot do as you _command_, not with everything else that I need to do today."

He lowered his face to hers as he said, "Do you really want to force my hand in this, Ms. Daae?" His fingers clutched at the hand he still held. "I do not believe you'd like the consequences; no, not at all, my girl."

She gulped and stated in a small voice looking up at him, "I've defied you twice now, sir. And although it hurt, I can do it again. It's getting easier and easier to do each time, and soon, you will have no hold over me." Christine closed her eyes, biting back the truth.

She'd just lied to him… _she lied!_

She forced herself to relax her posture and her hand he held. He was holding it tightly in front of her, forcing her to lean into where he stood if she wanted to keep her balance. He wasn't hurting her..._not yet._ But if this escalated any further… she gulped.

If she could get him calm, then perhaps he would see reason.

His eyes searched sightlessly back and forth as he absorbed her words, trying—she was certain—to find fault in her logic. She coaxed gently, "Wouldn't it be… …_easier_, sir, if we came to an agreement? A 'quid pro quo' if you will?"

Christine was relieved to see his battle-ready posture relax slightly. She squeezed his hand encouragingly and continued, "We could compromise; that way we both get what we want."

His other hand lifted slowly, and Christine watched transfixed as he felt for her cheek and cupping it, held her gently. "And just what is it the very determined Ms. Daae wants, hmm?"

Her heart drumming inside her chest, Christine replied softly, "I w-would like to start by making breakfast and tidying up the cottage."

He smirked. "Such small requests do you ask, little mouse, for such a large coup d'état as this." He gave her a wry, sad smile and tapped her on the chin. "Alright, in the spirit of 'quid pro quo', what is it, Ms. Daae, that you are prepared to give me in return for graciously allowing you to skirt your work with me so that you may fulfill your, entirely unnecessary to my mind, 'housekeeping' duties?"

Christine bit her lip. "I will transcribe for one hour."

He shook his head, bringing his face even closer to hers. His forehead almost pressed to hers, he whispered, "Not nearly good enough, my dear. Not good enough at all. What else have you to offer me, hmm, for a compromise? Better yet, what might I have to do, Ms. Daae, to buy more of your precious time?"

He was giving her that roguish grin of his, looking a veritable pirate, and her heart flipped as she looked up at him. He was teasing her, and they were standing so close— almost in a lover's embrace— and he was holding her so tightly to him, still caressing her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

She felt heavy, weighted, as if the world had paused while he held her close, his lips scant inches from meeting her own. She couldn't take her eyes from them as his hand still continued its caress of her cheek.

Feeling for the corner of her mouth with his fingers, he leaned down closer until his mouth was mere centimeters from hers. They were close; she could feel his warm breath ghosting along her lips, so close they almost touched noses.

"Well, my dear," he whispered into the silence, "what is it you desire?"

Wide-eyed, Christine moistened her lips, and gathering her courage, she whispered, "Please allow me to tend to your face."

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As her words registered, Erik involuntarily curled his hand where he held her at the neck and squeezed. She whimpered in fright, and he instantly let go, spinning around, hiding his face from view so that she wouldn't have to gaze upon his deformity.

His face was a true death by a thousand cuts.

Just when he thought he was finally going to be able to kiss her, when he was sure she was responding to him—as a woman should to a man— she had to bring up his accursed face!

He had forgotten, how easy it was to forget when she was in his arms… until she reminded him.

Even now, she continued to press him with her words, ripping him apart and splaying him open with them, her small hand falling gently upon his back, "Please, sir. I only want to help. And I promise it will feel better if you just let me try."

God, he felt broken. "And, little extortionist that you are, you will not sing for me until I let you do this, hmm? Is that the way of it, little mouse?"

He heard her draw a shaky breath as if steeling herself for what she had to say next, and then she spoke softly, "Yes, sir. That is the only way."

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_**A/N:**_ CHECK-MATE, ERIK! BOO-YA! IN YOUR FA-errmm... *authoress winces and holds hand at the level of her eyes expecting to be punjab-ed at any moment.*

Thanks be to _**FP33**_ for her exquisite beta work!

And you know what to do with that little button that says 'review'. ;D

More soon, dear readers.

_**PFP**_


	15. The Lion and The Mouse

Ch. 15— The Lion and The Mouse

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She left the room; he heard her go.

And then he heard her in the kitchen washing dishes, making breakfast, doing exactly as she said she would do.

And that was the moment Erik knew he had met his match.

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Christine turned from wiping down the countertop to find Mr. D'Anton seated in a chair at the kitchen table with his arms crossed and his expression one of long-suffering resignation.

Her eyes widened. Did that mean…? Was he going to let her care for his—?!

"Come, come, my dear nurse. I may be blind, but I can practically hear your thoughts. Yes, I am agreeing to let you tend my face. However," he held up a forestalling hand, "you better believe I'm going to make you pay dearly for this, my girl, very dearly indeed." His smile was predatory, his teeth agleam. "Perhaps with another score or two…" His expression said he was only half-way teasing.

Not the least bit intimidated, Christine beamed as she set about gathering ointment, tweezers, surgical scissors, soap, and a bowl-full of warm water. Meanwhile, her charge sat in a chair with his head tilted to the side, his eyes blankly staring, following her as she bustled about.

Christine took note of his apprehension. It was in the stiffness of his bearing, his shoulders and neck; the fact that his jaw was clenched tight. The best thing she could do for him would be to get the worst part over with as quickly as possible.

With everything assembled on the table beside them, she stepped behind him and lifted her hand to his shoulder, saying soothingly, "Alright, sir. Are you ready to begin?"

Jumping slightly at her touch, Mr. D'Anton nodded tightly and tilting his head back, closed his eyes.

Soaking a cloth in warm water, Christine began to gently moisten his face, and thinking that she needed to distract him, she asked, "You call me 'little mouse' a lot, sir. Is there a specific reason for it, or do you honestly find me to be a small, bothersome pest?"

His answering smile was cryptic at best. "You're asking me this question _now_, Ms. Daae? You really are a masochist, aren't you?"

Christine blushed and pursed her lips together, concentrating on her task, and not on her disastrous foray into idle chatter. She was never any good at it anyway. It was far better if she stuck to what she knew which was tending her patients and keeping her silenc—"Are you at all familiar, my dear, with the fable of the 'Lion and the Mouse'?" Mr. D'Anton asked interrupting her thoughts.

Eager to keep the conversation going, she answered him readily, "I'm afraid I've not yet had the pleasure," She grabbed the soap and began building lather in her hands.

He cocked his head to the side curiously. "Hmm, you are a young woman well-versed in Latin but sorely lacking knowledge of Aesop's fables?"

As she began to work the lather into his abraded skin, Christine winced in sympathy as she saw him grit his jaw at the first sting of soap. She looked down; his hands were clenched tightly into fists at his lap.

Muttering softly, again trying to distract him, she said, "That would require having had someone around to relate them or books to read about them, sir." At his perplexed expression, she felt compelled to explain further, "Though a gifted orator, my father disliked anything approaching fiction. And novels, fables, and fairytales were all a part of that." She rinsed the soap away as quickly as she could. "You see, Professor Augustine Daae dwelt firmly in the realm of fact."

"And your mother?" Mr. D'Anton ground through clenched teeth as Christine began purging a pocket of infection clear. Oh, but she was causing him so much pain!

Biting her lip, she answered him, "My mother was an opera singer, sir." She heard him give a small groan as she bathed the area in rubbing alcohol. Quickly, she blew over the area in order to take away the sting.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, and she noticed they were watering at the corners. "Tell me about her," he demanded, a bit desperately. Christine swabbed at the corners of his eyes with her thumbs, wiping away the tracks of his tears. Thankfully, the most painful part was over; all she had to do now was remove his stitches and apply soothing antibiotic ointment.

And then they'd be done.

"Errm, there's not much to tell, really." She grimaced, knowing her comment sounded at best impersonal, and at worst, like she thought he was prying. "I barely remember my mother," she explained, a wistful note seep into her voice. "She was lead soprano for the Royal Swedish Opera, and a renowned beauty. She and my father met while he was still a student at University giving violin and voice lessons at the opera 'for a song' he liked to say."

Christine did not tell him that her mother was the one person she'd always tried to emulate, and the memory of her had been corrupted and used countless times in myriad ways by her father to reinforce the fact that she would _always_ be found wanting.

Swallowing thickly, she informed him, "My mother died when I was five."

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Erik heard the grief in her voice, and he gave a sad, crooked smile. For being a child of music, the picture Ms. Daae painted of her youth was bleak.

He had listened to her tone as she related details about her life to him; bare facts with no embellishments and no additions. The stark, plainspoken way she spoke of her parents fit in so well with the information he'd already gathered from observing his little mouse thus far.

Her father had abhorred fiction, and yet, he was a musician; a musician lacking creativity—a professor who was a critic. Why did that thought niggle at him so? He heard a snip and then felt a gentle tug in his cheek as one of the remaining stitches was removed. Again, he attempted to distract himself, and more importantly, find out more about her. "So why nursing, Ms. Daae?"

"Why not, sir?" she countered, giving the scissors another snip as another stitch was deftly removed. "I nursed my father when he was ill, and I found the profession suited my limited abilities."

Erik was dumbfounded. "Limited abilities?" There was disbelief in his voice.

"Yes, sir," she answered him with certainty as he heard another snip. "You see, my father told me I could be one of three things when I grew up: a nurse, a teacher, or a secretary."

_What about world-renowned Prima Donna?_ Erik thought. How could her father have missed the jewel that was right under his nose? Erik's opinion of the man plummeted with these solemnly voiced words of hers.

She continued, "When he fell ill, and I had to take care of him, I realized I had an aptitude for nursing, so that's what I chose to become," Erik could practically hear the shrug in her voice, "or at least, I will be _someday_ when I finish my schooling." He felt another snip and tug, but his mind was far from such mundane matters now.

How he would have dearly loved to meet the _music_ _critic_ for himself.

Perhaps Nadir had taken care of him during his decline and could shed some light on the bastard's treatment of his daughter. Another few snips, and he felt the fiery burn of rubbing alcohol purifying the site where his stitches formerly were.

And then he felt her sweet breath was once more blowing across his cheek, easing the ache, taking away the sting. Erik's heart cinched. It was such a small thing she did, and yet so precious, so very dear.

As she began to apply the soothing ointment for his burns and scars, he posed the question he was going to ask next very carefully, "And music, Ms. Daae? Did you ever give a thought to pursuing a career in music?"

Her hands stilled upon his face, and Erik focused on them, cursing his thickened, scarred flesh for his inability to _truly_ feel it. He raised his hands and grasped hers, and just as he suspected, hers were trembling.

"I—" she faltered.

For the thousandth time, he cursed his inability to see. If he could only read her expression, Erik would know what she was thinking. _Keep her talking and focus on her tone_, he told himself.

"You what, my dear?" he asked, posing the question as gently as he could, stroking the soft inner flesh of her palms with his thumbs, praying she would continue.

"Music was my father's life," she explained solemnly, "it consumed him. Everything I know of music is _because_ of him." Something in her tone alerted him that this was no fond remembrance or credit to the man she called 'father'.

_The girl disliked music… disliked her knowledge of it. Did she dislike her father as well? _Erik wondered.

Slowly sitting up, he took her hands in his and drew her until she was standing beside his chair instead of behind him as she had been when caring for his face. Tentatively, he asked, "Tell me, Ms. Daae. Why have you turned your back on the gifts you've been given?"

"I—" He heard a catch in her voice and knew he was on the right track. Not too forceful, not too prying. Just casual interest—perhaps a little more so than casual but that was alright. He had heard her sing after all; he knew the extent of her ability.

Erik refused to consider the notion that she did not know its value, that she was not aware she possessed such talent; such a travesty could not be borne!

Gently, oh so gently, he pulled her down until she was seated sideways on his lap, until he could wrap his arms around her and hold her tightly to him. Her small frame was strung taut with nervous energy, but he did not think _he_ was the cause. Clutching her to him with one hand, Erik felt for one of her hands with the other and held it, massaging until her clenched fist relaxed. He entreated softly, "Tell me, my dear, why is it you've never pursued music?"

Her entire body shuddered at his softly voiced question, and it was as if something within her snapped. She went pliant in his arms, like a puppet whose strings were cut, and he had to scramble to keep her from sliding to the floor as her small, dear head rested against his chest.

She began to speak, and her voice sounded distant, as if she were speaking of someone else, "I've told you I attended college, and though that's true, I never received any kind of degree. While at University, I took all sorts of classes: history, science, higher level mathematics. Anything that was concrete and fact-based. Those were the only classes I was allowed to take, the only ones for which my father would approve.

"I was the only student my age taking such advanced music theory courses. And it wasn't because I was especially gifted or talented in the subject; quite the opposite actually. It was expected of me. _Required._ What you are having me do—your transcriptions—these are child's play compared to the types of exercises I had to do every single day growing up in my father's house, and my father, sir, was a more demanding critic than _you_ could ever be.

"And he taught me well_. I know music_," her beautiful voice tinged with bitterness, "I know it backwards and forwards. You can extemporize a song, and I can sing it back note for perfect note because this is how my father taught me to _appreciate_ music. However, the perfectly sung note for him never existed. Every sound, every _word_ I voiced could be improved upon in some way. And how many times did I hear him say, 'Do not speak, Christine, unless you can improve upon the silence.'?

"So… no, I never considered a career in music. Once I grew up, in fact, it never even crossed my mind."

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Christine closed her eyes and basked in the feeling of being held by Mr. D'Anton.

While she was speaking, he'd drawn her to sit on his lap, and she'd gone willingly… well, perhaps a tad unknowingly. Now that she was more aware of where she sat, she probably ought to scramble off him…

But Christine found she couldn't— she just didn't want to.

It was comforting being held by him in such a way, and truth be told, she needed a little comfort at the moment. Perhaps it was selfish of her to stay held in his arms like this, but she didn't want to give up that feeling, not until he forced her to.

Breathing in his scent, relaxing more into him, she wanted to absorb and catalogue every sensation for recollection later. There was the feel of his chest pressed against her side, his warm breath teasing the hair at her temple, and how marvelous it was to imagine herself so small and yet so protected.

_Cherished. _

He spoke quietly into the silence, scattering her thoughts, "We had begun this conversation, my dear, by you inquiring why I call you 'little mouse', and my asking if you've ever heard the fable 'The Lion and the Mouse'?"

Christine shook her head and uttered a softly voiced "No. I've never heard it."

Mr. D'Anton pulled her closer to him, and then he began to speak, weaving the tale for her with his liquid voice:

"There once was a lion—brave and true— the King of Beasts, out on a stroll through his kingdom. Now, every animal, be they great or small, would have to bow to him and pay his majesty some respect when he passed by. The birds in the trees would fall to their knees, their wings genuflecting in front of them; the monkeys swinging from the vines would sing a chorus, caroling his majesty's praises; the snakes that slithered would take up a hissing harmony that heralded his majesty's approach.

"With all of this fanfare that was surely impossible to ignore, along came a little mouse that stumbled across his majesty's path. The little mouse was in such a hurry, she didn't notice her king until it was too late, and his majesty, insulted by the little mouse's ignorance, caught her up in his paw and brought her to his mouth intending to gobble her up.

"'I'm going to make a meal of you, little mouse,' said the lion, holding the wee thing by the tail as she shook and trembled."

"'Please,' she pleaded in a squeaky voice, 'Please, sir. I was in such a hurry, I'm sorry I did not see or hear you, my king. And I surely deserve to be eaten, but I'm so small, I would make a terrible meal.'"

"The lion smiled and dangled the mouse from his paw, 'hmm, yes,' said his majesty, 'a wee thing such as you would, indeed, make a terrible meal, but it is the law of the land for me to punish you in such a way.'"

"'Have mercy, my king!' the little mouse cried. 'If you let me go, I promise to help you one day when you shall surely have need of it.'"

"Amused, the King of Beasts scoffed, 'Such a tiny thing you are, and how do you propose to help me?' The mouse continued to shake and tremble in the king's mighty paw, and not an answer could she give. He considered his smallest subject before him but a moment before his majesty gave a mighty, jaw-cracking yawn, and said, 'Be off with you then. I will let you live, little mouse, for I find I am not hungry. However, may you always remember this, and that your king is kind and merciful.' The lion sat his littlest subject carefully on the ground where she bowed low before him, and then scampered off into the green, the king certain he would never see her again.

"Now, many weeks passed and the king continued in his daily custom of strolling through his kingdom, keeping order and maintaining peace over all his subjects great and small. And the birds bowed their wings, the monkeys cried their praise, and the snakes hissingly lauded his certain rule. But the King of the Jungle was unfamiliar with the trappings of men, and one day, he stumbled upon a net made of rope, and was unexpectedly hoisted in the air.

"He gave a mighty, indignant roar, clawing and biting at the rope, trying to free himself. However, he could not; the rope was too intricately woven and far too thick. He called out to his loyal subjects, entreating them for help.

"Suddenly, the forest was quiet, the birds had taken wing and flown away, the monkeys were silent in their chorus, and the snakes no longer hissed their harmonious praise. The lion continued to claw at the rope and roared demanding his subjects come to his aid.

"Still, not a single one did, and the Lord of Beasts realized he had been well and truly abandoned by his kingdom; the subjects he'd thought so loyal and true. They had extolled his praises throughout the land but had all of them forsaken him in his time of need. He hung his head in shame, knowing certain death awaited him from stumbling upon this: one of the trappings of men.

"But lo, there was the tiniest squeak, and the lion squinted, looking down from his position hoisted in the trees to see a little mouse chewing at one of the lead ropes that bound him. Her progress was slow. What would have taken him one chomp took her seemingly hours to complete, but she was determined, and the lion recognized that she—the little mouse he'd let go weeks ago despite her lack of obeisance—had held true to her promise of coming to his aid.

"One final bite and the taut rope snapped, the lion came crashing down onto the jungle floor in a tangle of rope and fur. Unhesitating, the little mouse climbed and climbed until she was perched on the nose of her king. She bowed low. 'My king, are you alright? I would have been here sooner, but my feet are small, and the distance between us great. Is there anything else I can do for you?'

"Shaking himself free of the rope, the Lord of the Jungle put his paw to his nose and entreated his most loyal subject to climb on top. 'No, little mouse,' said the king, smiling kindly down at her, 'I should not have laughed when you told me you would one day help me, and for that, I most sincerely apologize." He put the little mouse upon his shoulder, and with a mighty roar for all and the sundry to hear, he resumed his patrol throughout his kingdom. The birds in the trees again bowed their wings; the monkeys out of fear of their king's displeasure, sang beautifully and apologetically, and the snakes hissed their harmony far and wide—all telling the tale of the brave little mouse and the King of Beasts, and the unique friendship that was forged through one small act of kindness."

Christine looked up from her position in his lap; a piece of his hair was tickling her nose, and she gingerly reached up and tucked it behind his ear. "You know," she whispered, "you quite resemble the lion you spoke of in your story, and not only in temperament."

Mr. D'Anton smiled crookedly down at her, his golden eyes unfocused at a spot near the floor.

"Won't you let me shear your mane, sir? And perhaps, shave these scruffy whiskers?" Christine tugged gently on the patches of beard that needed shaved badly.

Shutting his eyes, he ducked his head, nearly touching his cheek to hers. His hand moved to her cheek feeling along the line of her jaw. He tilted her head slightly, and Christine closed her eyes and trembled when she felt his lips at her ear. "Is this what my little mouse wishes?" he asked in a hushed voice, "That her lion be shorn?"

Pursing her lips, Christine nodded, touching cheeks with him.

He smiled at her. "Then so be it."

Gently, he lifted her from his lap so she could stand, holding her securely in place by the waist when it took her a moment to gain her balance.

Christine found she was rather weak in the knees.

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_**A/N**_: Is it hot in here or is it just me? *fans self*

Reviews are love!

_**PFP**_


	16. A Shave and A Haircut

Ch. 16— A Shave and A Haircut

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Erik told her where to find his razor, strop, and soap. He heard Ms. Daae in his room; a moment later, she returned with them.

Deliberately, she sat the things aside, and Erik made a mental exercise of ascribing names to each sound he heard: the snip of the metal scissors as she opened and closed them and then laid them down, the shushing whisk of lather being whipped in a ceramic bowl by a brush, the soft scraping sound of his straight-edge being stropped on supple leather so that it wouldn't nick him to pieces when she shaved him.

"You have used a straight-edge before, Ms. Daae? Yes?" He tried to mask the uncertainty he felt but was very much afraid he missed the mark.

"Yes, sir," she answered with a smile in her voice. "My father preferred a close shave."

He felt her hands gently move his head so that it was straight, and then her fingers were carding through his hair parting it different ways, and Erik couldn't stop himself from leaning back into her hands, loving the feel of her nails' slight scoring across his scalp.

She might have noticed this, she might have not, but she did seem to spend an inordinate amount of time getting his hair parted 'just so', and Erik smiled. His Ms. Daae was just as aware of him as he was of _her_… perhaps even more so. He almost groaned aloud when she used her thumbs to press from the back of his skull all the way down his neck, and when she did it again, that time, he did groan.

She was giving him a massage. Where on Earth had she learned such wonderful things? He asked her, and her hands stopped as she answered a bit uncertainly, "Is it bothering you? I can stop if you want—"

"For the love of God, NO!" Erik exclaimed, "Please, I was just wondering how you came about knowledge. Please, Ms. Daae. Continue." He was hard-pressed not to put a compulsion in his voice.

Hesitantly, she did so, and Erik sighed as he felt her small, talented hands move to his shoulders working on the tension there. "When I attended University," she began, sounding slightly embarrassed, "there was another daughter of the Physiology professor that was also in attendance; she was of Asian descent. We were in many of the same classes." Erik groaned aloud in appreciation as she pressed on a tight bunch of nerves and began to massage away the ache. "She lent me some books on far-eastern medicine, particularly on holistic healing methods; massage being one such technique. And, of course, in Sweden, holistic healing methods are very popular—particularly massage." She moved back up his shoulders to his neck and then his skull, again scoring it once more with her nails, and Erik felt a shiver run from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

He was going to marry her. By God, if he wasn't!

She removed her hands from his head, and he felt suddenly bereft, but he heard the water run, and then she was slipping damp hands back into his hair, finger-combing the lank strands. _Why wasn't she married?_ The thought occurred to him suddenly, and he frowned. It made no sense for her not to be married…

For that matter, why didn't she have a plethora of suitors at her beck and call?

She was a talented, intelligent girl, and as far as he knew she'd never even mentioned stepping out with a beau. He tried to remember hospital scuttlebutt. Lord knows they talked about everyone else's, but he didn't recollect any of the hospital staff _ever_ having discussed the love life of one Ms. Christine Daae. And although he didn't know what she looked like, he knew from collective personal experience that she had curves in _all_ the right places and smelled more than appealing… so why?

Absently, Erik registered the snip-snip of scissors as he continued to think.

The girl was extremely reserved and shy. While at the hospital, it had taken him weeks to get her to warm up to him, to utter the most perfunctory of greetings, and even then she stuttered.

Was that it then? Her shyness and reserved nature were what held her back from attaining a beau?

Was that why—?

"Ms. Daae, how old are you?" Erik asked suddenly, his query causing her to jump, jarring his head slightly.

"Twenty-three," she answered puzzled, and he heard another snip as more of his 'mane' fell to the floor.

Twenty-three years old. Thank God she was past adolescence!

For a moment there…

But she was young still… young compared to his thirty-four years. However, the difference in their ages was not insurmountable. And at times, she did have the bearing of someone wiser beyond her years.

"Alright," he heard her say, "I think I've almost—" he heard another snip and felt a strand of hair fall into his lap. "Yes, there. That… should do it." She began dusting off his shoulders with her hands, and Erik felt the top and sides of his head, relieved to find them even. "Ms. Daae, hand me a mirror, won't you? I want to make certain my sides are even and the back is straight. If there's one thing I cannot stand, it's my hair touching my collar."

"Bu—"

Erik smirked at her perplexed silence. "I'm only teasing, little mouse. It feels as though you did a wonderful job considering the material you were given." He gestured to himself, his face in particular, and his mouth drew into a crooked grin. "Thank you, my dear."

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There were only a few places where his beard did grow, but grow it did, and Christine quickly snipped as much of it off as she could with her scissors before she started to shave.

She began by spreading the whipped lather with the rounded brush, careful not to cover his scars and the medicated ointment she'd applied.

As he had with his haircut, Mr. D'Anton relaxed under her hands, closing his eyes and smiling a bit, and Christine couldn't help an echoing smile in return.

He seemed at peace.

Ever since she'd come to the cottage, she'd never seen him this… tranquil.

Not even in the last three days when he worked on nothing but his music. He had been smiling then, but there had also been a fire about his eyes, an agitated spark of creation. And although she had loved it, loved his energy and eagerness, she was glad to have _this_ Mr. D'Anton back… the man that somewhat resembled the patient she knew from the hospital.

She had tried to style his hair from memory of the clean-cut way he'd worn it while a patient under her care. Biting her lip, she examined her handiwork critically once more. Well, he certainly wouldn't pass muster for the army, but he could definitely go out into public without shame or disgrace of that she was sure.

Picking up the straight-edge razor, Christine ran her thumb horizontally across the blade testing it. It was well-honed and very sharp. Drawing a steadying breath, she put two fingers under his chin and tilted his head back.

And as she was about to begin, he spoke, "Careful, Ms. Daae. I need not remind you my face is my fortune."

Christine shook her head and tsk'd at his humor. His humor was so subtle, so dry as to be easily overlooked if one didn't stop to observe it.

Once again applying the razor to his jaw and carefully beginning to shave, she rejoined absently, "Fortune favors the brave, you know?" She truly hoped that's what he considered his scars from battle being—wounds of bravery—and not anything else.

Mr. D'Anton countered with a self-satisfied smirk, "Fortune is a woman."

"Ah," Christine smiled, "And will you also as Machiavelli recommends, 'beat and ill-use her' so she stays true to you, sir?" She finished shaving the last little bit of his beard and removed the remainder of soap with her finger, gently dabbing at his face with a clean towel, and examining her handiwork. A nice, clean-shaven jaw, a face that was medicated—and even now looked less red and inflamed—and short, cropped hair.

He looked less a pirate and more a gentleman.

His smile widened as he stood, "No, Ms. Daae, I would never treat a woman thusly." Groping, he reached for her shoulder and felt down the length of her arm. Taking her hand tenderly in his, he brought it palm open to his lips and kissed it.

Christine blushed, every nerve-ending on fire.

Clasping her hand in both of his, he placed her palm directly over his heart. His eyes closed as he spoke, "A woman is like a flower, Ms. Daae. With enough attention and care, she'll grace you with the honor of watching her bloom."

With a squeeze to her hand, he released her and began to walk out of the kitchen, his limp barely noticeable. "Oh, and Ms. Daae," he stopped and turned back around to face her, his expression gentle, "Fortune, my dear, has indeed smiled upon me for it was fortune herself who brought you here."

He turned around and left, and Christine had to clutch at the chair to keep upright, her entire body quaking.

The man's charm was positively lethal when he wanted it to be.

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_**A/N:**_ Indeed it is, Christine. Indeed it is.

I love reading reviews; it's like an 'attagirl' that lets me know I'm doin' a good thing here.

As always, thanks be to _**FP33**_ for her delightful beta-ing talents and cleverly insightful commentary. This would be a much lesser work without her.

More soon, dear readers, as the page turns.

_**PFP**_


	17. Moonlight Serenade

Ch. 17— Moonlight Serenade

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Erik wanted her.

He wanted her with every fiber of his being—warming his bed, singing in his ear, being his eyes so that he could focus on his music—his to have completely.

He did, however, give a moment's consideration to the thought that perhaps he didn't have the right.

With his scarring, limp, and blindness—any one of which would be enough to make a female of the species consider him 'damaged goods' and disregard him completely— she might not want to subject herself to a lifetime's servitude at his side. For that's the fate he would be consigning her to, should his blindness, as he was coming to suspect, remain a permanent condition.

But dammit, he wanted her!

It was going to take time… time, patience, and a fair amount of cunning.

He was certain she was attracted to him. Her reactions this afternoon in the kitchen confirmed it.

However, the lady fare was shy and not just shy but virgin too if he wasn't mistaken. And in this day and age, that was practically unheard of for a woman of twenty-three to be… at least, with the women of _his_ known acquaintance.

A frisson of anticipation stole up his spine as he recalled her response to his speaking lowly in her ear. Erik had felt the tremor of desire roll through her little body all the way from her head down to her toes, and he'd quickly had to remove her from his lap lest his ardor for her betray him.

And then she had given him a massage—oh, his naïve little mouse!

He would wait; he would be patient and bide his time until their wedding night to fully seduce her.

But by God, he would fan the flames of her ardor, awaken her to the undercurrent of sexual passion arcing between them, make it so his innocent sleeping beauty responded to the quickening in her blood, the fire of her lover's touch on her skin.

It would take all of his remaining senses to achieve this, he knew—this slow, luring seduction— in order to win over her mind and entrap her heart, to see her bound to him forever.

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That evening after dinner—which had again been sandwichless— they'd worked on Mr.D'Anton's score for a time, and Christine transcribed the beautiful, lilting melody he'd played for her that morning, singing it back to him on an 'Ah'. But once she'd finished, he'd insisted they leave off transcribing for a while so she could work on something besides his music. "After all", he'd stated, "In the words of Plautus, my dear, 'a mouse does not rely on just one hole', and so it is that _you_ need to tend other pursuits besides music in order to feel fulfilled."

She had read to him for a time, but truth to tell, she was not in the mood to read of unhappy Catherine and her wretched Heathcliff. Consequently, after finishing the chapter they were on, Christine made some flimsy excuse about needing to see to her darning, and Mr. D'Anton suggested she turn on the radio.

And so, for once, they were listening to the music portion of the program as it broadcasted the news of the Allies and their certain victory against the Germans in France. Mr. D'Anton sat in the straight-back chair and she in the wingback by the woodstove—at his insistence—darning her much-mended stockings and listening to the brassy, mellow sounds of the Glenn Miller Orchestra as they performed live from London.

Christine looked over from her basket of mending to see Mr. D'Anton with a quizzical, half-smile formed on his lips. With his eyes closed, he looked to be daydreaming or in a trance. Glenn Miller's "Pennsylvania 6-5000" was playing softly in the background, and with a resounding blast of brass, the audience clapped and the legendary band-leader announced, "Next up is an old favorite of mine. Fellas, grab your favorite gal and hold her tight as we play, 'Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,'" and the tinny-sounding audience cheered and then quieted as the song began to play.

"Do you dance, Ms. Daae?" Mr. D'Anton suddenly inquired.

"I—" Christine blushed and shook her head, "No, I've never… "

He rose and came to stand next to her chair. Mr. D'Anton bowed slightly from the waist and held out his hand to the left of her in expectation, his eyes focused on the floor at her feet. Biting her lip, Christine put her mending to the side, and taking his hand, rose to stand before him.

She was dressed, as she was practically every day since her move to Le Havre, in her usual winter attire of gray woolen A-line skirt, white stockings, and her ancient blousy sweater. Her shoes were practical, brown and low-heeled. Her hair was in its customary bun at her nape.

But when Mr. D'Anton drew her into his arms, Christine felt like a princess dressed for a ball.

She looked down, concerned with her feet, concentrating on getting the steps _just right_, perfect, so that she wouldn't embarrass herself or hi— "Little Mouse."

She looked back up at him uncertainly.

Mr. D'Anton was grinning at her. "The first rule of dancing is there are no rules." And Christine gasped to feel him draw her even closer to him so that there was hardly any space left between them, her free hand automatically went to his shoulder to steady herself as he still held her other hand in his clutched between the two of them.

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Erik began to shuffle them about the floor; his steps slow but deliberate and steady.

His injured leg prevented him from attaining the absolute grace that had once been his to command. But whether they were moving with perfection or standing still, it hardly seemed to matter. The fact remained Ms. Daae was in his arms and his hand clutching hers between them, his other hand at her back encouraging her to move still closer to him, to follow in the rhythm he set.

She was divine.

Her scent encompassed him. Her lithe, quaking form enchanted him; the way she followed where he led made him want to lead them dancing forever.

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The song ended and Christine pulled away expecting him to let her go now that it was over. He just shook his head holding tightly to the hand of hers he still held and waited in expectation for another song to play. The bandleader —Glenn Miller himself— spoke, addressing the crowd, "Tonight, I'd like to dedicate this next song 'Moonlight Serenade' to all the lovebirds out there, the 'johnnies' and 'janes' separated because of the fighting."

Christine stiffened.

Mr. D'Anton and she were not 'love birds', nothing could ever come between them; she would be foolish to ever think it could. She needed to remember that!

"Relax, my girl" he intoned, once more putting his hand at her back and stepping close to her as the music began to play. "Just listen to the music and follow my lead." He encouraged her to move still closer and rest her head on his chest.

Closing her eyes, Christine did, surrendering to the music and the spell it cast while this man held her in his arms. This was a bad idea; it had disaster for her poor heart written all over it, but she couldn't see a way to stop it. She didn't _want_ to stop it.

He danced them in a tight circle, twirling them slowly about, and scarcely an inch now separated her body from his.

His hand was on the center of her back, his fingers splayed wide, and where he touched, Christine burned.

His palm soothed up and down her back in rhythm to their dancing, encouraging her to go with his movements, to match the pace he set, and his chest was so firm and sure beneath her cheek, his shoulder so strong where she held him about the neck.

"You're a natural, my dear," he muttered lowly in her ear.

She shivered.

"Yes, you have an inborn grace about you that many a dancer in my company would love to attain."

Christine shook her head, burrowing still deeper into his embrace, thinking it impossible he spoke the truth.

"Don't believe me, hmm?" There was a wry note in his voice, and Christine had no warning at all before she was being spun and dipped as the song reached its sweeping finale.

Her heart in her throat, Christine looked up wide-eyed from her position almost horizontal to the floor to find Mr. D'Anton above her. He held her with a hand wrapped around her lower back, his fingers clutching securely at her waist. When he had dipped her, both Christine's hands had instinctively clutched around his neck to support herself, and so she held tightly to him. One of her legs was hoisted in the air and nearly wrapped around his trousered thigh, and his other hand was there as well, upon her stocking-clad thigh as he held her supported.

He was smiling, his grin reminiscent of a painting of Mephistopheles she had seen once. His honey-eyed gaze centered on her face, specifically her lips as he spoke, "I could not have done _that_ with just anyone, my dear. Not at all."

Gulping, Christine held her breath. The final chord of the song played to resounding applause, and seamlessly, he raised her back up until she was standing upright on her two feet next to him once more.

He again took her hand, and bringing it to his lips, pressed the back of her knuckles with the lightest of kisses. 'Thank you, Ms. Daae. That was lovely." With seemingly inherent knowledge, he escorted her to her seat by the woodstove. He also returned to sit in the straight-backed chair and resumed his contemplative air.

Christine looked at the darning beside her as if it were something foreign—alien. It looked strange lying as it was in the basket on the floor, and it took a moment for her to remember what it was and how she was supposed to work the needle and thread.

When it was obvious she wasn't going to be able to concentrate, Christine rested it in her lap and lost herself to her whirling thoughts. She had just danced her first dance!

She had danced her first dance _with Mr. D'Anton_.

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_**A/N:**_ For full illustration of above dancing scene please see the cover-art of this fic ;D

(((_psst_… _hey you_…._**yeah, you! **__Right there with your hands hovered near the keyboard or mobile device. Leave a review for the authoress, won't ya? She loves them!)))_

_**PFP**_


	18. Business as Usual

Ch. 18— Business as Usual

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That day created a marked change for the inhabitants of the little cottage as a new pattern began to emerge. Most mornings, Christine would wake up to the sounds of Mr. D'Anton softly playing the piano. It was still ungodly early when she did, but her body was slowly starting to adapt to it. That, and now Mr. D'Anton sent her to bed earlier in the evenings when she began to yawn and drift.

She would make breakfast and do the necessary chores while he would play vocal exercises for her, gradually warming up her voice in preparation for their work. After breakfast, she would tend his face and finish her chores; all the while Mr. D'Anton would play and sketch on the piano, giving her teasing previews of what the afternoon's work would entail. Late morning through early evening would find them ensconced on his score; Christine putting his thoughts to paper and then singing them back to him.

In the evening, they would have dinner together at the kitchen nook where he would regale her with tales of the opera and the productions they put on in the past. And then came her favorite time, after dinner, where he would have her read to him or they would sit and listen to the radio. Sometimes he would ask her to dance—always a slow song— other times, he would play for her a well-known composition—sometimes classical, sometimes popular— adding improvisations and dramatic flourishes that quite made them into newer pieces entirely and left Christine in awe of his genius anew.

She had noticed it the first time they dined together: though the man was blind, he still had impeccable table manners. Christine remembered their first true meal together when he asked her to serve him at the table and she was going to take her meal to the living room…

"Ms. Daae, where do you think you're going?"

She looked at him curiously. "To the living room, of course, so you can eat in peace."

He looked to approximately where she stood, his expression perplexed. "Eat in peace… whatever gave you the impression I wanted to dine alone?"

"But I— well, we've never truly shared a errm…" Christine floundered at a loss for words.

He sighed. "Please fix your plate, bring it to the table, and sit right here beside me, my dear." His tone brooked no refusal.

Blushing, Christine did as instructed, setting herself a place beside him.

"Good." He nodded once she had taken her seat at his right hand. "Now, Ms. Daae, let's put that higher level mathematical education of yours to some good use, hmm?" He smiled toothily, explaining "I want you to give me particulars concerning the meal in front of me including food type and position using quadrants and degrees.

Smiling, Christine bit her lip and studied his plate.

A moment later she said, "Alright, …let's see, the green beans are first quadrant, ten to sixty degrees, sir. And errm… the roll is second quadrant ninety to one-hundred and forty degrees, there's a whole pork cutlet in front of you, errm, third quadrant, approximately one hundred eighty to two hundred eighty degrees. It's lying parallel to the horizontal axis, sir. And well, the mashed potatoes are sitting fourth quadrant, three hundred to three hundred sixty degrees. Oh, and salt and pepper as well as a pat of butter are lying askew forty-five by one hundred thirty-five degrees, respectively, each seven centimeters from the perimeter of the plate, sir."

He nodded, and Christine watched intrigued, as he picked up his knife and fork and began to unerringly slice into his cutlet. "You're not eating, Ms. Daae," he scolded.

Ducking her head in embarrassment for having been caught out staring, by a blind man at that, Christine quickly picked up her own knife and fork and began to eat, and thus, started their meal-time tradition of 'dining in degrees' as Mr. D'Anton jovially referred to it.

While at dinner they talked, and sometimes he would ask her questions, especially about the type of education she received, the classes she had taken, her opinion concerning the goings-on of the world outside; other times, he would tell her stories, like he was doing tonight, about his opera and the antics and hi-jinks that went on behind the scenes.

"Oh, that cannot be true!" Christine exclaimed, shaking her head in disbelief.

"It most certainly is, mademoiselle, as it can't have been more than five or six years ago." he told her deadpan.

Christine laughed softly and shook her head, saying, "I just… I find it hard to believe, that's all."

"Find what hard to believe, Ms. Daae?" he asked, his unseeing eyes comically wide, his expression hurt. "Do you think me dishonest?"

"No!" she exclaimed, "It's just… stairways leading to nowhere, hidden corridors and secret passages riddled throughout, an underground lake… it all sounds too fantastic to be believed!"

He shook his head and waggled his eyebrows at her, "The architect, my great grandfather, was a bit of an eccentric… which is just a polite way of saying he was a kook."

Christine laughed.

Mr. D'Anton sat back from the table, grinning, and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

He gave her his toothsome pirate's grin, "You _should_ believe every word of it, my dear. For I've seen it for myself. The old place is reputed to be haunted, don't you know? People hear strange voices in the dark, mysterious happenings going on. Why wouldn't you believe Hitler himself refused to step foot in my theatre?

"The basta—errm, pardon, mademoiselle, _the odious gentleman_ is reputed to be quite superstitious. When two of his S.S. came to the Populaire to survey it for a rally for their Fuhrer once it became clear Paris was under occupation of German forces in 1940, wouldn't you know, Ms. Daae, but it was the damndest thing. Why both his officers reported back to him tales of the ghost. It seemed they both had been frightened out of their wits when they had taken tour of _my_ Opera House." There was an underlying note of ruthless steel in Mr. D'Anton's voice as he related this to her, and Christine shivered. "Needless to say, Herr Hitler declined my generous offer to use the Populaire for his propaganda and his grandstanding, and found another less-prestigious but considerably less-haunted venue to house his assemblies." Mr. D'Anton smiled viciously and saluted her with his wine-glass. "To the ghost, Ms. Daae."

"To the ghost," she whispered, considering, taking a small sip from her own glass and studying him curiously. There was something about his expression… something that told Christine there was more to this story than what he'd elected to share.

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Erik was tracking her through the cottage, following her scent—sunshine, springtime, and lavender soap.

She hadn't gone to bed yet, he knew, and she had not come to the living room for their evening's entertainment. The only other option was the bathroom, which he just checked, or the backyard, which made little to no sense. The girl knew how dangerous it was, what with him always harping to keep the doors and windows locked and the curtains drawn, and it was full-on dark by now… _and freezing_.

Opening the back door, Erik sniffed at the air. He detected no trace of her perfume, but he _did_ notice the smell of ice. It was in the air all around them; it was going to snow.

"Ms. Daae?" Erik let the slightest trace of unease enter into his tone. What if she was out there? She seemed too practical a soul to go somewhere and not tell him where she was going. But perhaps she was disposing the evening's leavings for the gulls? She did that on occasion… but she always told him when she was doing it, and Erik always made sure to 'escort' her at those times, not liking her being outside alone, even so close to the house, without a male present.

"Mr. D'Anton?" her small, puzzled voice came from behind him.

Erik turned around and held out his hand for her, pleased when she instantly took it, and stepping forward, he could feel her proximity to him. He shut the backdoor and locked it, then leaned against it and drew her close. "Where were you, my dear? I could find neither hide nor hair of you."

Tentatively, he reached out and touched her cheek. There was a small pause and then she nuzzled the slightest bit into his hand. "Andre didn't come today, sir," she explained, "And I just wanted to make certain both the boiler and the generator in the shed had plenty of fuel to see us through the night. I think we'll have to make use of both the radiator and the woodstove tonight."

"Well, next time you feel the need to do such, tell me so, Ms. Daae," Erik fought hard to keep the frustration he felt out of his voice, "that way I won't have to go blindly gallivanting all over creation just to find you." He caressed her cheek with his thumb, and not even giving it a second thought, pressed his lips to her forehead in a quick kiss. He released her just as quickly and began walking towards the living room leaving stunned silence in his wake.

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Christine felt her forehead; she could still sense the impression of his lips there even minutes after he'd gone. She drew a shaky breath and closed her eyes. She loved him. Without a doubt she loved him.

And surely it had to be all one-sided… _surely_.

The man probably kissed every woman of his association like that... it meant nothing. After all, he ran with a faster set, and Christine was certain, he had known many women in the Biblical sense even before his fiancé. But the gesture bespoke more of caring affection than any kind of casual contact. One would do that for a loved one, a sister, or a maiden aunt. _Right?_

It wasn't a romantic gesture at all.

But then there was the dancing, and his casual touches throughout the day.

Oftentimes, he would do as he 'd just done—reaching out for her hand— touching her cheek, her back, her shoulders, drawing her to stand close to him.

And standing there in the wake of his kiss, it occurred to her if she left his side for more than a few minutes at a time without telling him where she was going, then he tended to come seek her out. Of course it was only because he needed her. After all, she was at the moment of value to him—in as much as a housekeeper or secretary were of value—his nurse_._

She tried to tell herself all these things and more, but her heart—her foolish, forlorn, hope-filled heart—would not stop to listen.

She loved him. The knowledge thudded with certainty inside her chest.

She loved Mr. D'Anton.

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_**A/N:**_ My, oh my… TWO updates today, my readers! And Erik was worried over Christine's absence, and Christine now realizes she's in lurve… and oh, but it truly is a shame she doesn't think herself worthy TO be loved in return… silly Christine.

You know, a review is like a delightfully gift-wrapped treat given from you to me.

_**PFP**_


	19. Cold Comfort

Ch. 19— Cold Comfort

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Christine was cold.

No, that was an understatement. Christine was freezing. The radiator in her room was doing absolutely nothing to keep out the chill, and even though she wore a pair of long underwear, her thickest flannel socks and her robe, it still wasn't enough to keep her from shivering under her mound of blankets.

The temperature had dropped so suddenly. One moment it was cold but tolerable, bearable even, and the next, she couldn't get warm no matter how close she huddled to the radiator near her bedside. It just wasn't putting out enough heat to keep up with the demand.

She closed her eyes, trying to forget about the cold, forget the fact that her nose felt frozen and her feet like ice. How she wished she'd made herself a hot water bottle when she had the chan—

There was a knock on her door. "Ms. Daae?"

Christine's eyes flew open.

"Ms. Daae, are you awake?"

Her heart beat triple-time. The bedroom door opened, and then the light from the kitchen outlined Mr. D'Anton's silhouette as he stood just inside her door.

"Y-y-yes," Through her shivering, Christine just managed to answer him. She heard his shuffling footsteps, and then he was by her bedside. And even as she watched, he was reaching down and feeling for her shoulder, and his hand was moving towards her face, particularly her nose.

"Your nose is an ice cube, my girl."

"R-really, I'm f-fine." Her words would've had more validity if she could have stopped her teeth from chattering.

She saw his mangled eyebrow rise as he frowned down at her. "Well, I'm not, and I've been huddled near the woodstove all night trying to get warm. Budge over a bit, my girl." Shocked into compliance, Christine did so, and watched in wonder as Mr. D'Anton lay down beside her upon the bed. "If it gets any colder, I'm moving us both to the living room by the woodstove."

Christine could only teeth-chatteringly tremble, her eyes wide as she realized how close they were. The mattress could barely accommodate them, and he was still above the mound of covers… but she could feel his warm breath chuff along her cheek, and his body weight above her pile of blankets was providing much-needed insulation against the chill.

His hand again moved from her shoulder up until it touched her cheek, "Christ! You're shivering! Why didn't you come to the living room?" Christine felt his hands move until they touched her shoulders. "Never mind that now. Come on, my dear. Up you get. We're going to the woodstove, and we're going to get you warm."

Bringing his hands underneath her back, he helped her rise. And then wrapping her in a swathe of blankets, they hobbled—she wracked with shivers, he making limping progress with bones gone stiff due to cold, Christine was sure. They made it slowly from her small meat locker of a bedroom to the slightly warmer icebox of the living room.

He had moved the sofa so that it was lying lengthwise close by the woodstove, and Christine could see he already had a pallet set up for himself there.

She stopped in her tracks. "Mr. D-D'An-nton, I d-don't want to im-mpose."

His hand at her elbow propelled her forward, "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear, _**sit down on the sofa, Ms. Daae, and warm yourself. Now**_."

Christine was seated on the sofa before she knew it, watching as Mr. D'Anton fed more logs to the hungry woodstove. He had just compelled her here, but try as she might, she couldn't muster the energy to care. She closed her eyes basking in the radiant heat and the numerous blankets he had spread over her. He'd obviously added to her pile when she'd been entranced.

However, a moment later, her eyes shot open as she felt him at her side, lifting her up and moving her so that she was laying prone in his arms: the both of them now lying on the sofa underneath the pile of blankets. Her back was to the woodstove as she faced him, and if she thought the bed was small, the couch was miniscule. The only thing keeping her from toppling to the floor was the man who held her clutched to him.

But even as she had the thought, he was turning them so she was laying half across his chest, half on the sofa, his chest her pillow as he used the arm of the sofa to rest his head. He smiled, the flickering firelight turning his features into something suited to Beelzebub himself. "_Relax Ms. Daae; close your eyes and go to sleep_."

Christine felt her eyelids grow heavy; her body—previously riddled with tension—suddenly went pliant against him. As she drifted off, she thought she heard him say with a slight smile in his voice, "Don't worry, little mouse, this lion has no plans to make a meal of you… tonight."

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Erik held her wrapped in his arms.

How he wished he could see her! Watch the light of the woodstove play off her hair. This was one of his favorite pastimes: daydreaming of what Ms. Daae looked like. Her hair was brown tonight. Surely she had brown hair, perhaps the color of chestnut, maybe even the color of mahogany… with eyes the color of spring… or perhaps the color of the sea just after a storm. And when she was angry, when that stubborn chin of hers was up, her eyes would darken from tranquil smoky gray to turbulent steel, piercing him with her ire.

Oh, yes. He could just picture her now.

While she slept, Erik took time to feel along her jaw and neck, contentedly charting the topography he found there… memorizing. She had a pointed, stubborn chin set in a heart-shaped face if he wasn't mistaken. Her neck and shoulders were small, and Erik surmised that when she'd been a child, she had probably looked like a tulip: a too-big blossom on a too-small stalk.

Her top lip was full and luscious; he could feel it with his fingers. And Erik felt himself begin to harden at the thought of kissing her—finally being able to kiss her—having the ability to suckle and explore that beautifully-shaped top lip to his heart's content.

Quickly, he removed his hand from her face before he could think any more thoughts that would surely get him into trouble where his Christine was concerned. It was enough. Enough that she was here with him, lying in his arms and not freezing alone in her room. Enough that she was asleep on him. Never mind how she got here: his compulsion of her to sit down and sleep notwithstanding.

His thoughts again wondered to that beautifully-shaped top lip that fascinated him so, and his fingers itched to find out if the bottom lip was just as full or if she was top-heavy as it were.

It was going to be a long, agonizing eternity until sunrise.

He shifted a slight bit causing Ms. Daae to stir as well, and mumbling something in her sleep, she drew closer to him.

The girl was bundled up tighter than an Eskimo in winter with the blankets over them both and her multiple layers of clothes. And yet, he could feel the swell and weight of her breasts as they pushed against his chest.

And even as he had the thought, she moved until her slightly parted mouth was at his neck and her warm breath fanned the sensitive, unscarred skin there causing his body to ripple in gooseflesh. She squirmed, her thighs writhing against him until she settled with her hips aligned with his. Erik could feel the warm cleft of her cunny as she unknowingly moved herself right over his burgeoning erection; the layers of clothing between them doing little to dissuade it.

_Sweet fuck!_ Erik quietly moaned, squeezing his eyes shut tight and forcing himself to think of something—_anything else_—to calm his mind and take away the temptation his little innocent had just presented him.

He had only himself to blame for his present circumstances.

He could have chosen the wingback chair; he could have chosen the floor. He could have gone to sleep in his own frozen tundra of a bed for that matter. And with the way he felt now, he could certainly use the cold…

Hell, a brisk swim in the ice-strewn sea might not be enough to cool the fire burning within him!

He had only himself to blame.

Only himself.

Only.

Himself.

To bla—he noticed he was rolling his hips up and down in punctuation to his thoughts, grinding himself against her, and he immediately stilled, his jaw grit tight.

His behavior was disgraceful; Ms. Daae would be mortified if she knew.

Control.

He.

Needed.

Control.

Again, he had to stop himself from butting his length up against the warmth she'd unconsciously offered. _You ordered the girl to sleep! _he chided himself. _She is unconscious and unknowing! This is wrong. Think of something else, D'Anton_. _Anything else! _

Erik allowed his mind to wander, an often perilous diversion, he knew.

And sure enough, unbidden, the exact opposite of his little mouse's heaven presented itself to his mind, plunging him into his own personal, self-inflicted hell.

His ardor quickly fled as the ticker-tape of buried thoughts once more surfaced to haunt him.

In the three years, eight months he had spent serving in the French Resistance, Erik had seen many things to regret, but he had absolutely nothing to apologize for. He'd done what he had to do. He'd killed. And many times he'd been almost killed himself in his service to his country. He'd lied, had told countless half-truths and falsehoods until he was blue in the face, schmoozed and bewitched, enchanted and tricked to achieve his aims, in order to see that all those who remained within the sphere of his protection stayed safe, secreted, and secured.

These days, Erik rarely slept. For to sleep without the blinding succor of alcohol needed to dull his memory and anesthetize his heart, the nightmare reality of those three years, eight months returned full-force to haunt him.

It wasn't the death-defying coups and battles he recalled when he dreamed.

No, when he dreamed, he saw the horror, the certain devastation of watching his friends and employees, their parents and children— those placed under his care, secreted by his hiding— march to their certain deaths because of him. Because he wasn't smart enough, brave enough, fast enough, or present enough to be there for them in their hour of need.

There were those he'd tried to save through whatever underhanded means proved necessary; others he consigned to their deaths due to his absolute failure in ability to save them.

'Survivor's guilt' Nadir had called it.

And it was true he did lament the fact that, but for a quirk of that bitch Fate, he was still alive when so many good and innocent friends and loved ones were not. All of them sacrificing themselves so _he_ could continue in his mission: Lecerf, Nicollier, Sylvestre, Maltese. Their names and others besides that were a part of an ever-revolving list resounding in his skull, weighing heavily on his heart.

And he could picture them all, even blind as he now was, he could still remember with perfect clarity. And in some cases, he could recall their death-throe cries as they died protecting him—protecting them.

Erik shivered, but it wasn't from the cold.

He was far now from being chilled by the temperature in the room or taken again by Ms. Daae's charms as she lay upon him. He knew if he were to try to sleep tonight without the soothing balm of alcohol he still sometimes needed, he would most assuredly dream, and in his dreams, have nightmares.

Holding her clutched to him, Erik put a hand on her back and turned them, moving her until she was lying tucked to his side nestled against the back of the sofa, her head supported by his chest.

And as he had so many times before during his convalescence and in the months of darkness here at the cottage, Erik turned to music to help distract him from these thoughts and ease the emotions that filled him with despair.

Clutching her tenderly to him, he again cradled her cheek in his hand and thought of the score he was composing aided by the angel he held in his arms: the exhausted, so tightly-bound angel that lived in a web of inhibitions and a sea of self-doubt.

He was changing his entire opera to suit her, not that she would know, tailor-making it for the little mouse he held securely nestled in his embrace. And Erik dearly hoped one day, his little mouse would find her place in the sun and think herself worthy of it.

With how her voice was now, she could perform and stun audiences the world over with her precision, the absolute mastery of her craft. For technically-speaking, Ms. Christine Daae's performance was perfect in every way. But music was more than just precision; a lesson her father had neglected to teach her. Music was about the soul connecting with the body and creating a sound that when heard resonated in the hearts and minds of its listeners.

It was about surrendering to passion and emotion.

The heart—the soul— was missing from her voice, and she remained unmoved, even though she gave him _exactly_ what he asked for.

But how to explain this to her? Would she even understand?

In this, his Ms. Daae presented him quite the quandary. And holding her tightly to him, Erik closed his eyes and thought of numerous unique and interesting solutions of how to awaken the passions and invoke the emotion of one timid, little mouse.

And the tendrils of sleep curled around him, catching him unawares.

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_**A/N:**_ Don't worry. I'm not going to leave you in suspense, my readers, for it looks like this is going to be another double-feature for your viewing and _reviewing_ ***nudge, nudge, **_**HINT HINT**_***** pleasure :D

As always, thanks be to the divine _**FP33**_ for her wisdom and expertise. And thank you readers one and all for following me on this journey!

_**PFP**_


	20. She's a Diamond

_**A/N:**_ Psst, I've done a double-upload, so if you haven't read **Ch. 19— Cold Comfort**, this is me giving you a little whisper in your ear urging you to do so now.

Also, I will be catching up on replying to reviews this week. Thank you, my kind and patient reviewers!

Enjoy!

_**PFP**_

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Ch. 20— She's a Diamond

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"Ms. Daae, the song is in three-quarter time and needs to be sung joyfully, with merriment." Erik watched his beautiful Diva shift her feet as she stood by the piano in his music room, her honey-golden curls agleam in the sunlight. She shook her head, and smiled sadly.

Erik eagerly drank in the sight of his little mouse: inquisitive hazel eyes looked down at the music she held, her honey-golden curls were bound in a bun at her nape with a few tendrils escaping, her clothes hung shapeless, colorless on her frame. But her unusual beauty was there for any man to see _if_ he stopped to take a look, to examine that which was hidden by the girl's shapeless clothing and shy, reserved nature.

Kissably full and soft lips, wide-set hazel eyes that were gentle and alluring… that was if she ever bothered to lift them from the floor. A heart-shaped face with a pointed chin, and high, distinct cheekbones that would look lovely when she smiled… _if_ she smiled.

She shook her head and said softly, "I'm singing it the best I know how, sir."

"Hmm, yes. That's just the problem, isn't it?" Erik smiled sadly and rose from the bench. He walked over to her, cradling her dear, familiar cheek in his palm. "You don't know much in the way of joy, haven't experienced much merriment in your life, have you, my girl?"

Gently, he tilted her chin up to him, and her eyes hesitantly met his before shying away. "Allow me to show you a taste, hmm?" He leaned down and was moments away from kissing her when she looked up at him, pain and accusation in her eyes.

"Why did you let me die, sir? Why?"

And as he watched, her body—her dear, precious form began evaporating away, slipping from his fingers. She continued to stare at him, her eyes accusing— condemning him—until she was gone. And he was alone again with the thoughts of guilt and despair as his dread companions.

His surroundings morphed and shifted, and quite suddenly, he was standing on the shore near the house by the lake.

There were bodies everywhere!

Erik looked at the bloated, decaying corpses floating; some face up, others down in the lake.

This couldn't be happening! This _hadn't_ happened! It was everyday dreaded, but this had never occurred! Had it?

_HAD IT?!_

How had the Nazis found and slaughtered them? How could they have known?! His charges were alive and safe when he'd last seen them; he'd hid them so well, no one knew! No one could know.

_How?! _

As he watched, a child—Antoinette's Marguerite—drifted into view, her dark brown hair floating wild in the current and her gypsy-blue eyes forever looking skyward, her blue little lips frozen in the rictus grin of death.

_CHRIST, NO!_ he cried, falling to his knees by the lake as their corpses drifted past: a macabre parade solely for his benefit. Poligny, little Jammes…. he didn't want to see it! Dear God! He didn't want to see!

"M-mr. D'Anton…?"

Erik's eyes shot open with a snap, but he could see nothing in the darkness.

"Mr. D'Anton, sir?"

Erik registered his Christine nestled against him, certain in the knowledge he was still dreaming. "Have I killed you too?"

"K-killed me? N-no, sir. I'm right here beside you."

He shook his head. "You can't be real. You can't!"

Erik felt a hand tentatively touch his shoulder. "I assure you, I am, sir."

He shook his head again. "But how do I know?"

He rolled them until she was beneath him, his hand groping, reaching for her dear, sweet face. "How do I know you are real?" Gently, he lowered himself until his lips were millimeters from her own. "Prove to me you're real, angel. Make me believe."

And Erik kissed her.

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He was kissing her.

Mr. D'Anton was kissing her!

Christine's eyes closed as she surrendered to the sensation, feeling light-headed and all-atremble. Was he still dreaming? Did he know it was _her_ he held?

His lips moved against her with frantic need, and Christine brought her arms up to clutch his shoulders. She didn't know what to do, how to respond. She had never been kissed before; she didn't know what to do!

Tentatively, Christine pressed her lips back against his.

She heard him groan softly, and then his hand moved to cradle the back of her head as he increased the pressure of the kiss. He mumbled against her lips, "Open for me, my dear. Let me taste you, sweet girl."

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_That's it. Oh, that's it, my girl._ Erik thought as his angel began to respond.

Moving his hand to cup her nape, he deepened the kiss, just brushing his tongue along the moist entrance of her mouth. Her hands tightened at his shoulders, and his eyes shot open as he realized he was really kissing her!

He was really kissing his Christine! Oh sweet mercy, their kiss hadn't been a dream! And she was responding to him!

He brushed his tongue once more just inside her open mouth, sampling her, before breaking away only slightly and moving to the corner of her lips. His lips lingered there as he mumbled against her, "Good morning, my dear."

He could feel her trembling underneath him and could hear her breathing hitch. "G-good morning," was her shy response.

Erik smiled and kissed her again. "How did you sleep?"

He moved his mouth away from hers and brought his hand around to her face, tentatively touching her feature by feature revising his mental map of her as she closed her eyes and nuzzled into his palm.

"A-as well as you _c-commanded_, sir." Though she stuttered from nerves, there was a wry note in her voice, and Erik smiled.

She was feisty this morning.

"You would have frozen in your bed had I not. Besides, Christine, I find waking up this way here with you to be infinitely superior to any other I've ever known."

He heard her gasp, and he took advantage of it to kiss her again, this time showing her a little more of his passion, his longing for her.

He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips requesting entry, and hesitantly, she again opened for him. Oh, his shy little flower! She had never been kissed before he would bet, and gently, he caressed his tongue with hers, savoring her response when she hesitantly met him and flicked her tongue shyly against his.

Erik kissed her fully then, tenderly penetrating her mouth with his, claiming her, coaxing her to play along, to glory in the bond that was theirs.

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"Ahem."

Distantly, Erik registered the sound of a throat clearing inside the little cottage. He broke the kiss and put his forehead next to hers, his breathing ragged.

"Just so you know, I _did_ knock first," Nadir spoke from the hallway.

Christine jumped below him, and Erik felt her cringe, but he gentled her with the backs of his fingertips across her cheek. "Easy." he whispered, "Steady on, my girl." He stole another quick kiss and then rose from the sofa hopefully blocking Ms. Daae from view. "Khan," he called out affably. "And what brings you here at such a _fortuitous_ time as this?"

"You were to expect me on Christmas Eve for the afternoon." Erik could hear the old man drawing nearer, and Ms. Daae's frantic movements to disentangle herself from the blankets and flee. "Honestly, I told that man of yours, Andre, weeks ago; did he not deliver the message?"

"The message was not delivered," Erik replied tightly, grabbing hold of the blankets and stopping her progress before she could leave the room. "Nadir, if you could give us a moment?"

"Where would you prefer my tired, old bones wait, hmm? The kitchen perhaps?"

"No. Not the kitchen," Erik replied wryly. She would need to walk through there to get to her room and encountering Nadir in her nightclothes and robe would make her feel more ashamed.

"Out on the frozen stoop, then?" his godfather asked, and Erik could hear the wry smile in his voice, "Or perhaps in the taxi that just drove away?"

"That would be the perfect place, yes." Erik dead-panned, putting his hand out and reaching, grasped her shoulder.

"N-no!" he heard Ms. Daae say as she rose to stand beside him. "I—I'll j-just… oh!" That forlorn little sound was his undoing.

"_Nadir_."

"Alright, Erik. I'm going, I'm going." Erik heard the front door open and felt the brace of the icy wind. It was still just as cold this morning… well, _early afternoon_… as it had been late last night. "I'll be outside," said Nadir, "Don't keep an old man waiting too long," he continued, muttering softly under his breath, "It may be hot as August in here for the two of you, but it's biting cold for me."

Erik heard every word though he doubted Ms. Daae could say the same.

The door closed gently behind him.

Feeling her try to pull away the instant the door was closed, Erik said, "No, no. We'll have none of that." He turned towards her and reaching for her face, felt her cheeks. They were scalding hot.

She ducked her head away from him. "Oh, b-but—what he must th-think! Dr. K-khan only just arrived! And you and I… we w-were—"

"_Hush_." Erik put his fingers to her lips compelling her to silence. "It's alright, my dear." Drawing her into his arms, he could feel her trembling: his frightened, aroused, and mortified little mouse. "Trust me when I say Nadir has witnessed more surprising things than this in his long life, and y_ou have done nothing for which you should feel ashamed, Christine._ Do you understand?"

She relaxed somewhat in his hold, placing her head against his chest, and he felt her nod. "Good girl," he muttered as he tilted up her chin gently kissed her lips before he said, "Now, go get changed."

Erik heard her shuffling in the blankets as she began to quit the room. Before she made it to the hall, he couldn't resist adding, "Oh, and little mouse," he heard the blankets rustle as she turned to face him, "I expect to pick up right where we left off later on tonight."

He heard her surprised gasp, and then she was franticly scurrying away.

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Both he and Nadir could hear Ms. Daae in the kitchen preparing a meal.

Nadir had come for the afternoon and was leaving on the train that evening. It seemed the station was running a dual service to cater to the high demand of travelers before they shut down in preparation for tomorrow's holiday; a holiday that had wholly slipped Erik's mind.

He smiled thinly as Nadir completed his examination of him, and he heard the click of the pen-light as it was turned off.

Erik still, of course, had not seen a single glimmer of light. "Well, your scars look remarkably much improved. I'm glad you're letting Ms. Daae care for them. How's the foot?" Using Erik's knee for a prop, the old physician stooped low, and Erik felt his gnarled, old hands reach out for his mangled foot and begin to unlace his shoe.

He disregarded his question and instead demanded, "Tell me everything you can remember about Ms. Daae's father, Nadir. How did he treat her? How did she act towards him?"

"Ah, now that's the way the wind blows, is it?" The old man teased affectionately.

"Just answer the question, old man."

"Well, he was in lots of pain towards the end, Allah bless his soul, but still… … you really need to be doing exercises to gain mobility back in these muscles, Erik. Your range of motion could improve drastically if you'd only just—"

"And _her_, how did he treat her, Khan?" Erik interrupted through clenched teeth as Nadir twisted and turned his bad foot every which way. Finally yanking it from the physician's grasp and groping the floor for his loafer, Erik put it on, removing the temptation of torture his foot presented from the good doctor's view.

Hearing Nadir sigh, Erik reached out his hand and putting it under the elderly physician's elbow, assisted him in rising, his old bones creaking in protest. There was the groan of the straight-back chair, and then Nadir said, "Augustine Daae was a hard man; the nursing staff and the other physicians responsible for his care could attest to that. There was no obvious paternal love to be found for his daughter—well, none that _I _could see at any rate. Although the girl certainly tried to be there for him as much as could be. She was, in fact, good as gold to her father right up until the very end.

"Did he just not care for her?" Erik asked.

"Worse than, I imagine. He was always apologizing _for_ her, embarrassing her in some respect, pointing out her flaws, her ineptitude. He did this constantly, even with members of the medical staff present. It got to where Nurse Tomlin began assigning the girl unnecessary chores around the hospital just so she wouldn't have to be present with her father, suffering his abuse."

Erik absorbed this information. "And how was he when she left his room?"

"Oh, right as rain, but for the agony he suffered. You see, the type of tumor he had was slow-growing. It took years for the man to die. _Years_. And although this cannot be proven, it's my belief that he somehow blamed his daughter in a way for what happened to him—focused his anger on her—and that kind of pain, that kind of disease can mess with a person's mind, influence thoughts."

_So what had been a normal, if strict and critical, upbringing became something else entirely when her father fell ill_, Erik thought, _and she had put up with it alone for years._ Making certain Ms. Daae was still bustling about in the kitchen out of earshot, Erik asked quietly, "And Ms. Daae… how did she take to her father's passing?"

He heard the chair creak in protest as Nadir changed position drawing closer. "She was a bit lost if I remember correctly." He cleared his throat and muttered sotto voce, "Most victims of abuse, even if only verbal in her case, are like that when their abusers have abandoned them. Tomlin brought her on full-time after her father died and made certain she had a place close by the hospital to stay. But truthfully, I don't recall noticing her much thereafter. Three weeks later, Paris was liberated, and you were brought to us laid out on a stretcher, my boy."

He absorbed what Nadir had said, but also what he hadn't.

Erik asked, "Did her father ever mention anything about her and music to you?"

He could hear the exacerbation when Nadir tsk'd in reply.

"I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important, Khan. She was hurt by the bastard, and I need to know everything I can in order to fix it."

Erik heard him sigh. "I'm an old man, Erik, and it's been months since that happened, but… now that you mention it, yes, he did. It was probably about a week before he died, and all he wanted was for his daughter to sing to him. He begged anyone who would listen to go fetch his daughter so she would sing."

"And did she?" Erik pressed.

Nadir's tone was grave when he replied, "To my knowledge, no. She never did."

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_Get a hold of yourself, Christine!_ she told herself again. Her hands were still shaking; she was yet trembling from their kiss. Her first kiss, and to be found out by Dr. Khan of all people! Oh, what he must think of her!

She buried her face in her hands, tempted to cry! _Remember what Mr. D'Anton said!_ _Oh, remember what he said: 'you have done nothing for which you should feel ashamed'_. But he hadn't seen the doctor's look of shocked surprise!

And Dr. Khan had entrusted her to be Mr. D'Anton's nurse, and his housekeeper at the cottage.

How on Earth could she face either of them again? How?!

She straightened and looked over at the tea service. It held sandwiches and the ginger-spice cookies she had baked yesterday, and of which Mr. D'Anton was so fond.

She needed to go in there, but she honestly didn't think she could.

"Ms. Daae, I was wondering, could I have a moment of your time?"

Christine jumped and looked at the doorway to the kitchen. "Oh, Dr. K-khan. Yes, sir. I—I'll be there in a moment with t-tea."

"No, dear. I meant alone. Here's fine. Please, have a seat." He gestured to the kitchen table, and Christine's blush deepened. How could she have forgotten this was originally his house—his cottage?!

He poured her a cup of tea and sat it as well as a ginger spice cookie on a plate before her. He looked at the mismatched mugs that she, per necessity, had to use and then over at the few remaining dishes exposed in the cabinet rack and gave a wry smile. "My wife Sadie is going to be livid when she discovers Erik broke her grandmother's wedding china."

Christine opened her mouth to apologize, but he held up a restraining hand, and said, "Eat your cookie and drink your tea, Ms. Daae." His blue eyes twinkled. "Doctor's orders."

She nodded and took a sip of tea, but she had absolutely no appetite. Her stomach was roiling with tension.

"Do not worry about Erik overhearing us, my dear," Dr. Khan spoke. "I assure you he is quite absorbed in his room at present." Christine looked up at him curious, and he gave her an impish smile. "I offered to check his prostate." She blushed again and lowered her eyes. "Needless to say, the boy's staying as far away from me as can be at the moment."

Dr. Khan busied himself with making himself a plate and pouring his own tea and said at length, "You know, mademoiselle, this cottage has a bit of a romantic history with lovers."

Christine pursed her lips wishing she could bury herself from the mortification, the shame she felt. "I am so sorry, sir!" she said to her plate.

She felt his hand on hers, parchment-paper thin that was warm and comforting on her cold, clenched fist. And Christine forced herself to relax, to recall Mr. D'Anton's words of assurance and calm down. "Hush now," said the doctor, "there's nothing to apologize for, young woman! Why, nothing at all. As I was saying, this cottage has a history."

Christine slowly looked up and focused on Dr. Khan's words. He nodded encouragingly to her, and patting her hand, picked up his tea once more and took a sip.

He continued, "My wife and I met here almost fifty-nine years ago. But even before that, the Enchanted Cottage or EC for short, had a reputation for bringing lovers together. There is, in fact, a registry around here someplace… if it wasn't destroyed by the angry bear in his fit. It tells of all the couples that have come and gone from the EC and how they got together. And in my experience, what the Enchanted Cottage brings together, let no man tear asunder." He smiled wryly at her and bit into a cookie, his gaze taking on a reflective air.

"My wife and I had a whirl-wind romance you see? She was eight and a half, and I was nine, and this is where our parents chose to stay for the summer. She in this cottage and me in the house across the way." He pointed to a strand of overgrowth abutting the white picket fence to the side of the little cottage. And Christine could just make it out if she squinted. "That house has long since been demolished but this cottage has remained." He smiled affectionately.

"My Sadie and I, and our children and their spouses, have had many happy memories here; many happy summers spent under its eaves." He smiled but then his smile tinged with sadness, "And you and my godson have come up here to the EC in winter; something I must say I've never done until now. And I know of my godson's reasons for coming here, possibly better than he does himself. And I know of yours for I hired you." Again, his eyes twinkled at her. "This cottage heals, Ms. Daae, and that is why I granted his request. This cottage has a magic all its own, but you, I think my dear, have quite worked some magic on my godson as well if I'm not mistaken."

Again Christine had to duck her head, wanting to shake it in refusal of his praise. "I have done nothing, sir, except that which Mr. D'Anton could not do for himself."

"Hmm, I don't think that's the whole of it, mademoiselle. Not at all. But I shall let it rest for now. As I was saying, you have done a wonderful job caring for my godson, and I am thrilled with his progress! Is there anything you need or a specific request perhaps? I will do my utmost to see it fulfilled."

Christine shook her head, embarrassed by his offer. She had just been doing her job after all. "No, there's nothing I need at present, thank you sir."

However, she suddenly remembered what she had wanted to ask him seemingly so long ago but was hesitant to voice it with Mr. D'Anton so close in proximity. After all, he still did not know she was his nurse.

The doctor must have seen the question in her eyes though for he said, "Yes, my dear? You have only to ask it."

"On Mr. D'Anton's case notes," Christine looked around and then lowered her voice to a whisper, "there was a note concerning his blindness that left me perplexed. I tried looking it up in the dictionary and encyclopedia here, but I couldn't find it."

"And the note read?" Dr. Khan encouraged.

"_Could be psychosomatic_. What does that mean, sir?"

"Ah, that." He sat back in his chair, and looked up at the ceiling, putting his hands together and steepling his fingers. "Well, in terms of definition, the root word 'psycho' means 'mind' and 'soma' means 'body'. The 'tic' means 'as pertains to'. So, the literal definition of the word in Latin means, 'as pertains to mind over body'.

"In all honesty, Ms. Daae, my godson should see just fine. Nothing whatsoever is wrong with his eyesight. His pupils respond well to light. And physiologically, I've tested his cortical processes, and they are sound. Though the flash of the mortar shell may have induced 'flash blindness', that should have resolved itself in a matter of weeks, a couple months at most. It has been almost six months to the day since the incident, and my godson reports he _still_ cannot see. Can you tell me, Ms. Daae, does he seem overly concerned or bothered by his condition?"

"Errm, well," Christine bit her lip, "Actually, I found myself surprised by how well he's adapted to it, sir. So, are you meaning to say that he isn't truly blind?"

The doctor nodded and smiled again his sad smile. "Not truly, no. But he _believes_ he is. The mind is a curious thing, Ms. Daae, and it has certain mechanisms—defense mechanisms they're called—that are triggered after trauma is experienced. Erik has seen and been through much these last four years. Much that would have cowed a weaker man. His mind, in defense, has convinced his body he is blind in order to cope. What do you know about his position in the war?"

Christine shook her head, "Not much really. He was a lieutenant in the French Military, fighting in the Resistance, so the other hospital staff had said." Christine blushed and looked away; concerned the doctor would think badly of her for listening to hospital gossip.

He replied, "That, while true, is not precisely the whole of it. He was given the _honorary_ title of 'lieutenant' when the Allies stormed France and began their fight to liberate Paris. But before that, Ms. Daae, he was… such a wee thing in his pinafore, bowtie, and jumper, pleased as punch to be having his picture taken for the very first time in his grown up clothes."

Christine looked at Dr. Khan curiously, jarred by the abrupt change in his manner and the topic at hand.

"But you must know, Ms. Daae, the young boy had a positive fascination with frogs. And, unfortunately, that morning, it had rained torrents. Well, wouldn't you believe it, but that little scamp went ajumpin' from puddle to puddle, chasing frogs and bedecking his 'Sunday Best' in seven kinds of filth. His poor mother was beside herself with shame! And there we all were gathered to take the family portrait."

Her eyes widened as she cottoned on. Mr. D'Anton was now in earshot of them. Christine smiled and nodded to Dr. Khan that she understood.

Dr. Khan nodded back. "I have it at home, my dear, if you'd care to see it sometime. All of us in our finest attire with our sober-sides smiles, as was custom in the day, and Erik looking the perfect little urchin smiling triumphantly and holding up his frog!"

Christine laughed as Dr. Khan had intended her to. Oh, but she could just see a young Mr. D'Anton doing exactly as Dr. Khan had said.

"Telling tales out of school, Nadir?"

Christine looked over to see Mr. D'Anton leaning with his back against the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed against his chest and his legs crossed below the knee. He casually moved and began walking towards them, confident in his stride, though his eyes remained unfocused, staring blankly at the far wall ahead of him. "Don't believe a word of what he says, my dear. I assure you, I was at all times a well-behaved little gentleman."

Dr. Khan snorted pointedly at this, but Mr. D'Anton continued, gesturing proudly at his chest, "My mother raised me right." He sat down at the table, and Christine fixed him a plate of sandwiches and poured him some tea.

"So which of the children is Sadie with this year, Nadir?"

Christine looked again at Dr. Khan curiously, and he explained, "My children live all over the globe, Ms. Daae. It has been our tradition—my wife and mine—up until the last two years due to the war, to visit one of them and their families at Christmas and inflict ourselves upon them. This year, with the Liberation of Paris, and the birth of Darius's firstborn, my wife decided a visit to Lascaux was in order, and so, that is where she is at present. And I will be joining her there tonight."

"And how _is_ Darius faring as a father?" Mr. D'Anton asked before taking a huge bite of his sandwich.

Christine saw Dr. Khan roll his eyes at his godson's less than graceful display of table manners, but she could only smile for it was so good to see his appetite returned.

"According to Darius and my wife, the child is an absolute prodigy! Barely two months old and already smiling and cooing up a storm. Born premature at that! Now, I will admit that _is_ quite the feat for a premie." She could see the paternal pride in his eyes as Dr. Khan spoke of his newest grandchild. "Oh, but little Reza does have a smile to light up the room though! Wait a moment, Ms. Daae, I have a picture in my wallet I could show you."

Dr. Khan fetched the photograph, and passed it to her. Christine made a noise of assent, looking briefly down at the black and white picture of the truly darling child and making the appropriate noises. But her concentration remained centered on Mr. D'Anton.

When Dr. Khan had reached over the table past him to show her the picture, for just a moment—an instant—Mr. D'Anton's eyes had looked down and focused on the photograph as it passed him by.

Could what Dr. Khan said about Mr. D'Anton's blindness be true?

Was it something that was as the meaning of that word 'psychosomatic' inferred, something his head was doing to his body… tricking him into thinking that he was blind when all the time, he could see…?

Oh, she hoped so! She dearly hoped so!

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"I trust you know what you're about, Erik. She is not one of your lady-bird chorus girls or your light-o'-loves. And don't even get me started on that viper you were engaged to…"

"_Khan_," Erik warned him.

The two of them were seated once more in the living room, a warm fire crackling in the woodstove as Ms. Daae cleaned up the kitchen after their 'meal'. But Erik was sure she was giving them time for a visit.

She was a good woman, a gracious woman.

Nadir continued to speak, much to Erik's displeasure, "Well, my boy, it's true. Neither I nor Sadie could understand what you saw in that woman. I mean she may have had a comely face and a pleasing figure, but her voice could claw slate. And don't even get me started on that attitude of hers."

Erik's jaw tightened preparing to set the old man on his ear, but Nadir was already plowing ahead, "Ah, but I wanted this to be a good visit!" He patted Erik on the knee. "And it seems that you are in fine spirits as well as better-than-predicted health. Love will do that for a man, so they say," Nadir trailed off, and it was obvious to Erik he was fishing for a response.

Erik didn't disappoint. "Love?" he scoffed, "Don't talk of such things to me, Khan."

For the first time that day, his godfather's voice took on a faintly disapproving air, "Well, if you don't love her, then what are your plans for her? I didn't send her up here to you, boy, so you could use her and abuse her."

"_Khan!_" Erik again warned.

"It's true, Erik! I've watched you over the years. You've went through your fair share of women, and all of them mad over you—utterly mad! But never once did you let one turn your head. Not even the viper." He put his hand on Erik's shoulder and squeezed, "However much you may have claimed to care for one another, anyone who has ever been in love could see the two of you were no love match."

Erik said tightly, reigning in as much of his anger as he could, "I intend to marry Ms. Daae, Nadir."

"What was that? I'm an old man, Erik, and I'm afraid I don't quite hear as well as I used to."

"You heard every single word, old man," Erik hissed. "Now, quiet. You know from talking with her that she is a timid, frightened little thing, and I don't want her to know. Not yet, at least."

"But wouldn't the knowledge help assure her of the sincerity of your suit?"

"No. The knowledge might frighten her away, Nadir. She's been here less than two months, and already she's come to mean so much to me. I need more time with her to get her accustomed to the idea before I ask her to make this a more… _permanent_ arrangement."

"And by arrangement, you mean marriage to the girl. Oh, Erik! Oh my boy, I am thrilled! Positively thrilled! I cannot wait to tell the news to Sadie! She is going to be so happy to hear this, Erik! So very happy!"

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"What do you say, my dear, to giving Nadir one song to send him on his way, hmm? A preview of the new opera I'm composing before his taxi arrives."

Christine looked up from her position seated by the woodstove in the wingback chair to the two men seated on the sofa. The both of them had been talking about old times and catching up on the new, and for her part, she found their conversation fascinating. Not truly feeling the need to take part, but still feeling included nonetheless, she sat there with her darning and listened as the two rambled on; laughing softly when inevitably they would joke or deride one another, sometimes for her benefit. There was obviously a great store of affection between Mr. D'Anton and Dr. Khan, and Christine felt privileged to be a part of such a thing—if only tangentially.

"Well, my dear? Will you sing for us?" Mr. D'Anton again asked her.

Biting her lip, Christine looked from one to the other of them. Dr. Khan looked surprised but intrigued, and Mr. D'Anton… he looked to approximately where she sat expectantly.

She hadn't told Mr. D'Anton she didn't perform; he'd never really inquired, other than asking why she didn't pursue music. And he'd only asked that from an intellectual standpoint since she seemed to know so much on the subject, she was certain.

In fact, he'd never made a comment about her voice being good or bad either way, so she really didn't know where she stood with him, and that was reassuring. She considered herself another instrument at his disposal—as good as a recording device—a far less expensive and complicated one, to Christine's way of thinking.

"The song I have in mind needs to be sung, my dear, as it has only the barest hint of accompaniment." And instantly, she knew which song he wanted.

It was difficult. Perhaps one of the most operatically-challenging pieces she'd ever encountered. The Diva who performed it would have to be sensational to pull it off.

_But her? _

To be fair, they had practiced it; Mr. D'Anton uncertain in how she had the notes portrayed, refused to move forward until she had sung it _just_ _right_ to appease him.

"Please," Dr. Khan stated. "I would be honored, mademoiselle, if you would share this with me."

Biting her lip, Christine sat down her darning and agreed.

Mr. D'Anton gave a nod in her direction as she took her place by the piano, and he sat at the bench.

The opening chords of the piece began to play, and Christine started to sing.

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Erik heard his Diva finish the aria in a resounding volley of notes that set the rafters to ringing. Silence followed, and turning his face away from her, Erik smiled.

Nadir, he was sure, was speechless. Erik could just picture him— mouth open, staring agog.

At long last, Nadir spoke, "Tha—that was…That was mirac—"

_"—_my new composition, Nadir_!" Erik interrupted smoothly. "Quite the beautiful piece of music, wasn't it?"

"Her voice is exquis—"

"Excellent construction if I do say so myself, but I'm thinking of changing a few notes around, and Ms. Daae provided worthy representation of what I was aiming to achieve. But yes, it just needs one or two minor changes," Erik loudly played a discordant chord hoping to jar Nadir from the trance his Diva had just put the man under. "You see, it needs to be resolved to something like this…" he played another jumble of notes until he was sure Nadir had recovered himself.

"Young woman, your talent is except—"

"Nadir, have you ever heard that war ditty from the States, '_Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition_?'" Erik started playing loudly: gloriously, triumphantly, EAR-SPLITTINGLY, while singing at top of his lungs, "**PRAISE THE LORD AND PASS THE AMMUNITION! PRAISE THE LORD AND PASS THE AMMUNITI—**"

"ERIK!" Nadir yelled, clapping him on his shoulder. "That's quite enough!" Nadir continued shouting over his raucous piano playing, "Ms. Daae has her hands over her ears and is looking at you like you've lost your mind. Have you lost your mind?!"

"Don't compliment her, Nadir!" Erik stated quickly out of the corner of his mouth while he continued to play loudly. "Does she still have her hands over her ears?" Erik asked.

"Yes."

"Good. She hates being critiqued—for good or ill. Just compliment _the music_!" The piano ceased with a resounding crash of notes.

"Ms. Daae, you may lower your hands now." Erik heard Nadir say. "Erik, the aria _was_ beautiful—very well-written _and very well executed by you, my dear_." Erik heard Nadir say, putting a wealth of meaning behind his words to her.

"Th-thank you," was his little mouse's sweetly voiced reply.

"Well, Erik, you've certainly put this old man's mind at ease as well as given him a delightful Christmas present in the form of that song you just played. I can't wait to tell my Sadie all about my visit and the joyful news of your impending—errm… _improving_ condition!"

Erik grinned wryly and shook his head at the place he thought Nadir stood. The old man was as subtle as a falling chandelier.

"But, children, the afternoon grows late and my taxi, if I'm not mistaken, has just arrived.

"Take good care of yourself, my dear," he heard Nadir say to her, "and know you are doing a superb job looking after my little cottage _and_ its sole inhabitant."

And then Nadir was hugging him and pulling him close as he whispered, "If I didn't see why you wanted to marry the girl before she sang, which I did by the way, I certainly do so now, Erik. She's a diamond, that one, and you better take good care of her."

"Never for a moment doubt it, Nadir," was Erik's only response.

"Good boy." With one final pat on the shoulder, Nadir was gone, and it was just the two of them alone in the cottage once more.

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_**A/N:**_ Well… the LONG awaited (and requested) moment FINALLY arrived. **They kissed!** And then that pesky Nadir shows up and spoils it all! But he _was_ chock-full of info to share with our favorite couple, wasn't he? I'd very much like to know your thoughts on the matter, dear reader. So give that little review button a 'go' and see where the spirit takes you, hmm? :D

More soon, my dears,

_**PFP**_


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